Unsung
by Paige Turner3
Summary: She is a ballet rat with an untold story, but will he see her as a real person or simply a means to his own ends?
1. Prologue onehalf

**Hello, Paige Turner here. I realized my first post (having been written quite a long time ago and not posted with any sort of idea what I was doing) could use a small amount of tweaking, and that maybe, just maybe if I changed it, more people would be tempted to read on to the rest of the story. **

**So, we'll see how that turns out. **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except this version of the characters, which can't honestly be anything worth owning. **

**Oh, and if you're reading this for the first time – it gets better. I swear, it gets better the further into the story you read. Really. Check it out. **

**Hidden Desires:**

**Prologue **

A loud crash of thunder woke Meg Giry as she lay fast asleep in her dressing room at the Opera Populaire, cocooned tightly in two worn and threadbare quilts. She had fallen asleep to the comforting sounds of a storm echoing through the enormous, magnificent building where she and her mother lived. Now, it seemed the storm was over, and an oppressive silence met Meg's straining ears as she raised herself on one elbow, staring out at the dark room. No – not silence – as she stilled, she could hear a steady, faint _drip, drip_ of water echoing somewhere in the Opera. Still half-groggy with sleep, she slapped her hand instinctively down on the open box of matches on her nightstand, selected a match, and lay back against her pillow to strike it expertly overhead, on a piece of rough paper she had pasted to the headboard of her small bed. She held the small match in both hands, as one would hold a flower, and stared at the flame as her mind returned slowly to consciousness.

Leaning over, she lit a small oil lamp, a brass Persian item that she had found in her room one day. It had been sitting on her dressing table as if someone had been entering from a dark room and forgotten it, having no more use for it. Meg had immediately claimed it, and used it every night. It flared briefly as she lit it, and she turned her face from the momentary brightness. The dark did not frighten her, and she had explored the Opera House enough in her nearly eighteen years that she believed she could find her way around it in the darkness, but if she were going leak hunting, she thought she would do well to bring a light.

Holding her worn black blanket tightly around her thin shoulders with a hand clenched at her chest, she rose from her warm bed and lifted the small lamp from her bedside table. She also gathered up her washbasin, an ornate but faintly cracked porcelain bowl with a faded design of roses twined around the edge, with which she intended to temporarily solve the problem of the leak once she found it. Not bothering to put on slippers or a dressing gown, as no one else was likely to see her at this time of night, she crept out of her room, closing the door behind her with only the softest of _click_s.

Meg was surprised when she had traveled the length of her dressing room's hallway, only one of many used for the chorus girls during performances, and the faint sound of falling water had not grown louder. That meant that the leak was somewhere else in the Opera House… but where could it be in this enormous building that it would echo so loudly that she would be able to hear it all the way from her room?

With a quiet "Ah!" of realization, Meg thought of the only place in the Opera likely to provide such excellent acoustics – the grand stage and auditorium itself. Sighing, as she would really prefer returning to her warm bed and the soft grip of sleep to a nighttime stroll of a "haunted," not to mention cold, opera house, she set off down the corridor in a path she had traveled hundreds of times before, which would bring her quickly backstage. Her bare feet made no sound on the ornate crimson carpet that ran the center of the hallway, and she seemed no more than a gliding shadow herself, wrapped in her black blanket. The only part of her that was easily visible in the darkness was her pale, long fingered hand, which shielded her lamp flame from the wind of her movement.

After only a few minutes of travel, Meg found herself behind the many layers of lowered curtains that hid the magnificent stage. Raising her lamp high, she took care to move slowly and silently, her keen blue eyes searching everywhere from the rafters to the stage floor for the elusive dripping. Briefly, she wondered if she would ever spot a single leak in such a forest of thick, softly swaying fabric. A few still-open trapdoors showed nothing but blackness, entrances into the first level of the Opera's extensive sub-levels.

Suddenly, the light from her small flame glinted off a falling drop, and yes, there it was. Meg walked to stand near the pool formed by the slow dripping, straining to see past the many catwalks and curtain ropes overhead. Understanding struck without visualization, however, as she realized that the leak must have been coming from one of the many small pipe chimneys that opened through the very top of the Opera, used for ventilation when a performance called for an exceptionally large amount of smoke. Someone, one of the stagehands no doubt, had left the flue open, though there was to be no telling how long it had sat that way; this was Paris's first real storm in several weeks. Meg would be sure to mention this carelessness to her mother – Madame Giry had the Opera's manager's ear.

Looking down at the spreading puddle beneath the leak, Meg sighed. No sense in having someone slip in the morning, or having the water run and ruin one of the still-lowered backdrops from that afternoon's rehearsal. Reluctantly, she removed her worn blanket and, in one billowing movement, spread it smoothly over the pool, setting her washbasin on top of it. The falling water now made a sharp _plink_ each time a drop was caught by the porcelain bowl.

A sudden and suspicious breeze made Meg shiver, and she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. Not knowing why, as her first thought was to return to the warmth of her dressing room, she pushed through three layers of curtains until she found herself at the edge of the stage, in front of the first, magnificently embroidered curtain. She stared around at the enormous auditorium, its velvet seats empty and silent, only a few spare candles in wall brackets dimly lighting the huge, cavernous room.

Meg had rarely seen the auditorium from such an angle. Despite her many years at the Opera, Meg remained a simple ballet dancer and chorus girl. Though a great lover of music, vocal and instrumental, she felt she possessed only a mediocre skill at both. Most of the instructors at the Opera had assumed that Meg would have no potential for greater roles than the chorus offered, as they believed she was there because of her mother's occupation, and not any talent of her own. None had bothered to teach her more than a simple chorus girl was expected to know, and her mother, though ballet mistress as well as a box attendant during performances, had resolved never to spend extra time with Meg, for fear of bringing the implications of favoritism down on both of them. Thus, Meg had always kept her secret loves and desires to herself, and never saw any reason to, as she felt she was bound to do, embarrass herself by attempting to voice a desire for a chance at more. She only felt comfortable singing when no one was around, which was discouragingly rarely in the busy Opera Populaire.

Which is why, as she stared hungrily at the empty room, thoughts and dreams of one day performing from where she now stood, front and center stage, entered unbidden into her mind. "That's all they'll ever be," she told her self quietly, "just dreams." Still, she found it hard to resist wondering what it would feel like to sing, here, as la Carlotta would tomorrow as she had for nearly every performance in Meg's recent memory. How would it feel, she wondered, to sing from the center stage of the magnificent Opera? What harm could it do? After all, there was no one around – everyone else was still warm and asleep in their beds.

Or so she thought.


	2. Finishing Prologue Chapter One

Paige Turner: Hello again, thanks ever so much for reading. Now that I have some clue what I'm doing, here's the second half of Chapter 1.

Oh, in response to my reviewers: Yay! People gave me happy reviews! And, to Flourish, thanks ever so for the praise. I too admit that I usually don't read stories that are only one chapter – I usually look for some kind of reassurance that the story will be updated. But lately I've been reading the shorter ones, and some of them are pretty good. Thanks for making an exception on my part.

To Crossbow- no, Erik doesn't fall in love with Meg when he hears her sing. It's not going to be some short, happy little fic like that where wonderful Erik ends up with someone else in the first three chapters, I swear. For the most part, I'm going to do my best to stick to the books/movie/play – I just want to tell my own story, developing Meg's character.

Anyway, (I know you want me to shut up and get on with the story already) I just want to say one brief thing about how I write stories, so you'll forgive me when you feel it's necessary. I write all the time – it's my hobby, along with reading, even if I'm not very good at it. The problem is, when I think of a story, it's usually ending-first, then the beginning, then major events in the middle (usually near the end), then little events in the middle. So, I suspect that the middle of this story may either be boring to read or skip in time. I doubt it, since I've gotten better at that lately, and the PotO story doesn't really cover too long of a timeline. I'm considering taking it back where the book/play ends, but I'll see when I get there.

I swear, I won't talk so much before my other chapters. Or….I'll try. I make no guarantees. Sorry.

Oh, and I own nothing. You know I that. So, let's just make this disclaimer run for all the chapters, okay?

So, on with the story!

(Chapter 1 – Part 2)

Deep below the Opera House, another permanent resident of the Opera Populaire sat awake, lazily sketching architectural designs on several large blueprint scrolls. Erik leaned sleepily on one hand, his mind wandering as his designing pencil hovered motionlessly over the parchment. Why did he torture himself with such thoughts – why did he continue these drawings? The buildings would never be built; the dreams would never be realized. His sunken golden eyes ranged over the half-completed design, and he sighed. Why did he even bother?

Exhaling slowly, Erik straightened in his ornately carved work chair. He placed his pale hands, the long, thin fingers slightly smudged from the graphite of his pencil, against the edge of his full workdesk and pushed, popping his back noisily. Slowly, he lay his head down on top of his papers and allowed his mind to empty. No more thoughts of dreams that would never come true, not right now. Opening one eye, he glanced sideways at the large, fancy grandfather clock on one wall of his room. He was surprised at the late hour, but then, he never kept normal hours. He only ever cared about the time when it applied to the curtain rise of one of his operas – there was no call for a schedule in his free and masterless life below the world's surface. He closed his eyes again.

As he lay, a soft but persistent noise reached his ears, slowly burrowing through his peaceful emptiness and into his brain. The steady _drip, drip_ of water, so far away through the levels of the Opera, seemed to grow louder and louder in the silence. Unwilling to move to ­­­discover the source, Erik groaned softly and turned his head to the other side, but it was no good. Try as he might, Erik could not ignore the sound, and began to regret the ingenious design of trapdoors and corridors through the sublevels of the Opera, which, on a quiet night or one where there was an exceptionally large amount of sound, would allow him to hear the sounds of the grand stage all the way down in his house on the lake.

Well, Erik thought regretfully to himself, if there _was_ a drip of water on the stage, he would do better to fix it sooner and get some sleep than to leave it for one of the janitors to clean up in the morning. He already knew how the drip must have been caused – no leak could penetrate his beloved and sturdy Opera. It must have been one of those idiot stagehands again, forgetting to close the smoke vents after that afternoon's dress rehearsal of _Hannibal_. Even the stagehands and trapdoor workers needed to practice their timing with the Opera's cast, but that was no excuse for carelessness. Erik would find what fool was responsible for this neglect, and make sure he was punished for his inadvertent yet possible harm to his beloved stage.

Not seeing any reason to dawdle longer, as the damage and his annoyance would only increase, Erik sighed and stood, straightening to reveal his thin height. He moved across his room with a catlike, natural grace, silent though there would be no one to overhear him. He pulled a long black cloak over his thin shoulders and paused by the door to pull on a white, full-face mask. Ever since that fool of a stagehand Buquet had stumbled upon him maskless in the upper corridors, Erik was loath to leave the sanctuary of his lake house without it. And, without pausing to light a lantern, as he needed no such thing to travel his opera in the darkness, he swept out of his door and across a small dock to where a black gondola waited to ferry him across the underground lake, nearer to the world of the opera's living.

Erik traveled through the shadows, no longer hearing the sound of the falling water due to his changing position. He met no one on the journey, and quickly became lost in his own thoughts. When he reached the stage, however, he was drawn up short by the sight of someone else already there! Without a sound, Erik quietly retreated into the shadows behind an enormous crimson stage curtain, peering around it at the unexpected and unwelcome sight of a young woman, wrapped in a blanket and holding a small lamp high above her head, already peering into the catwalks overhead for the source of the dripping. He watched silently as she found the small fall of water and the puddle it was creating, and frowned at it. His eyebrows raised as she swiftly removed her blanket from around herself and spread it over the pool to soak it up, revealing a tall, pale, thin frame, scantily clad in a low-cut, nearly sheer black sleeping shift that barely brushed the tops of her feet, revealing bare, high-arched feet. She bent, her back to Erik, and placed a porcelain washbasin in the center of the blanket, into which the water from the open vent now fell.

Now the girl straightened and, as though in a dream, walked stealthily through the enormous curtains towards the edge of the stage. No, it was not a particularly secretive walk, Erik thought to himself – it was more a simple grace to her walk that made him think that the young girl, most likely a ballet member or chorus girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, preferred to walk quickly and in a manner that would prevent her being seen or heard. Erik thought it was an almost catlike grace that mirrored his own natural manner.

His curiosity aroused, Erik followed the girl from shadow to shadow, until he could see her stop in front of the main curtain, feet from the edge of the stage. He watched as she looked admiringly around at the dim theatre room, and he felt no small sense of pride that his creation should be worthy of much admiration.

The girl seemed to be having an inner battle – she would look around at the large, empty room as though about to speak, then shake her head and look down at the stage floor, apparently lost in thought the whole time. Then, seeming to reach a decision, she straightened, adding several more inches to her height.

"What could it hurt?" she asked the empty room. "It's not as though there's anyone awake to hear me. Yes, yes, I think I shall."

Erik almost laughed at the girl's private dialogue and her assumption that she was alone, as much out of mirth as to scare the child witless with his presence. But before he had decided to let loose his echoing, demonic laugh, the girl began singing.

She began tentatively, as though she expected someone to shout for her to stop, or laugh, or appear to punish her for being up so late. But, the rarity of the opportunity to sing alone and in front on the Opera's stage and the absence of any visible observers strengthened Meg's voice after the first few measures, and she sang her heart into the lead's main song from the following night's performance.

_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. _

_Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll try._

Unfortunate that the part was ideal for la Carlotta, Meg thought briefly and distractedly as she sang. Carlotta was a fine soprano, and Meg was, she believed, and alto, though she could almost always sing most of the sopranos' parts as well. Meg learned mostly by mimicry, and she was now able to parrot Carlotta's part with considerably more skill than one would expect from the quietest of chorus girls.

Erik listened critically as the girl sang, as anyone with considerable musical background will do when listening to music. He was surprised at the volume and style she gave her song – its main attractiveness was in the passion it conveyed for the part. It was clear that the girl was an untrained singer – at times, when the range became clearly too high for her, she would switch keys to keep her song in her range.

But what amused him the most was her mannerisms as she sang. She sang as if in front of a packed theatre, as though she were really playing the role. She gestured with all the feelings of the song, happiness and love, mild loss for the past, continuing devotion – all showed in her face as she sang. When, in the performance, there was to be an orchestra solo, the young woman straightened and breathed deeply, as though she could really hear the swell of the notes in her mind. She beamed around at the empty theater, the only adoring fans she ever expected to have already in front of her. And, as the song ended to a difficult series of archipeggios and runs, she conducted with one pale hand, keeping time and raising her hand to regulate her pitch. With her last, high note, she held her hand up and open in a way that made Erik think that she was not aware of her actions, and that conducting so was habit for when she sang alone. Then the note fell, gracefully spiraling to end slightly off pitch, with a last dazzling smile at the vacant room, and she cut herself off with a conductor's fist.

Erik smiled. Well, she would never be as good as his Angel would. Her time was coming soon, and this song would take her to the top, to fame, to the immediate notice of the nobility. And it would be his triumph, his glory, as she sang his teachings to the crowds and received their love and admiration. But for now, this unexpected serenade had served to lighten his mood, even though the singing was not nearly up to the standard he had come to expect from the Opera's singers. Perhaps it was best, until the girl developed some sense of pitch of her own, that she remained in the ballet chorus. There would be only one rise from chorus girl to star now, and it was clear to Erik that the only one worthy of such advancement was his lovely Angel.

Meg clapped her hands and spun happily. "I did it!" she said delightedly to the auditorium. "I hit it!"

Halfway through her second spin, however, she froze, a wave of fear crashing over her and coursing through her body with a sudden adrenaline dump. She had just seen . . . something . . . someone in the shadows where the main curtain met the wall. Though she could not see a body to identify the brief vision, she knew for certain that she had seen a face, white and glowing in the half-light. Her eyes locked on the spot, and as her vision tunneled in the dim light, a white face _did _appear in the shadows!

Meg straightened, trying to convince herself that it was merely a trick of the flickering flame of her lamp on a fold of cloth, but her mind could not really lie that way. It _was_ a face, and suddenly it rose a few inches, as though the bodiless owner of the face had pushed himself off the wall and now stood slightly taller than Meg herself.

Stories of the Opera Ghost flitted unbidden across Meg's mind, as she immediately recalled every terrifying detail she had been told about the mysterious and malevolent Phantom of the Opera. She had never really believed them, as she prided herself on a logical mind, if a slightly cowardly heart. But now, so late at night and in the darkness, with the storm still hanging in the air, it seemed to her that her traitorous heart had been correct all along, and this magnificent building was truly haunted by the Ghost.

In one last effort to still her adrenaline-accelerated heart, Meg bent and retrieved her small Persian lamp from beside her on the stage, vaguely intending to walk away and go back to her dressing room as quickly and silently as was humanly possible. This plan was shattered when, with a heart-stopping lurch of fear, Meg heard a soft chuckle immediately behind her, as though someone were bending over her back. She straightened with a jolt and spun, but there was no one there. She raised her lamp, but she could still see no one.

Her large blue eyes wide with fear by now, she turned shakily back in the direction in which she had seen the face, and suddenly found herself faced-to-face with the terrifying white visage! With a short yelp of fear, Meg jumped and dropped her brass lamp. As it fell, the rush of wind extinguished the flame. This meant that, while it was thankfully no longer burning as it hit the stage floor, Meg had also lost all near light and was temporarily blind in the darkness.

Meg froze. She remembered how close she was to the edge of the stage, and did not fancy a misplaced step leading to a fall into the orchestra pit. Also, she did not want to run into the Phantom if she did not have to, and who knew where he was by now. She simply stood, motionless, as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the new level of light. This did not take long, but by the time she could see again, the Ghost was no longer anywhere to be seen.

With several hard heartbeats, Meg realized that she was going to have to find her way through the forest of curtains without a light. Well, as long as she stayed near the wall, she should be able to get by that way. "After all," she told herself as she started across the stage, her bare feet making no noise on the smooth and varnished wood, "you were the one who didn't really even want to bring a light to go leak hunting. There's nothing here that wasn't here before, so why be scared now when you weren't earlier?"

"How are you so sure nothing's here?" came an inquiring voice from right against her left ear. Meg's heart jumped in her chest, and she briefly pressed against the wall, immensely frightened. She shook slightly as straightened, mentally berating herself for letting the dark get to her. There could be no one there!

"Ghosts aren't real," she said aloud to herself. "There's nothing here to hurt you."

"Oh, I assure you, my dear girl, ghosts are very real." The voice was low and slightly echoing, dark and mysterious and even sensual, even through Meg's terror. "As are demons."

Meg's courage was nearly completely gone by now. She had been walking quickly and quietly along the wall, trailing one hand along it as she hurried with her head down. A curtain of long, uncombed, wavy blonde hair hid the rest of the stage from her eyes as she stared at the ground, though she couldn't have seen anything in the darkness. The candles of the auditorium were completely hidden by the thick curtains, and logically Meg told herself that there would be nothing to see if she could. But it was what she might be able to see in the blackness that terrified her, and she kept her face hidden.

Suddenly she felt something brush her hair, pulling it away from her face and pushing it behind her shoulder. Meg spun towards the touch, eyes wide, but she saw nothing there. Then, out of the darkness, a ghostly white, almost skeletal hand reached towards her, almost glowing in its paleness. Meg was frozen, her hair swinging back down to cover the left side of her face, and the ghostly hand gently swept the hair away from her forehead to tuck it behind her ear. The touch was as cold as ice – no, Meg thought morbidly, as cold as _death_. Then the white face loomed in front of her once more, seeming to materialize mere inches from her nose, and she could even feel the breath from its immobile mouth. Her rationality was gone, and she was too afraid even to scream.

"There now," the sensual, malevolent voice purred inside her mind, "that's better. Now I can see your fear, and you can see why you should be afraid." With that, the white face, which had been human enough, transformed into a terrifying skull, leering at her as though mocking her from beyond the grave.

Meg screamed then, a loud, piercing shriek that lasted only a few seconds. Turning, she sprinted the length of the dressing room corridor, yanked open the door, and nearly slammed it shut behind her. She locked it swiftly and stood breathing heavily against the door. Then, overcome with weakness in the aftermath of the adrenaline, she nearly threw herself onto her bed, pulling her remaining blanket tight around her and closing her eyes tightly, cursing her irrational fear at the voice in the night. However, in the pitch darkness, her rational mind seemed to have deserted her, and now she was without even a light to chase the visions of looming white masks away from the shadows.

Chuckling darkly to himself (and allowing the laughter to echo eerily down the dressing room corridor after the frightened chorus girl), Erik strode smoothly to the area backstage from where the smoke vents were controlled. Quickly finding the appropriate ropes, he closed the vent and stopped the leak. Then he walked around the stage, collecting the girl's blanket, lamp, and washbasin. As he picked up the small brass lamp, he was only slightly surprised to recognize it. "I've been wondering where I left this," he muttered quietly to himself, smiling. It was indeed his, one of his many small souvenirs from his years in Persia. He must have left it in the girl's room by accident one day, when using the secret tunnel behind her mirror. All the dressing rooms had mirror passages, he may have used hers at anytime and left the lamp, no longer needing it in the light of the room.

Erik smiled as he looked down at the items in his arms. Here was another simple opportunity to make his sinister presence known in his Opera, as chorus girls were known to be prone to gossip and tales of mysterious happenings. For no real reason, he began to laugh, a dark, sinister laugh that echoed a thousand fold in the dark theatre, filling the halls and the sleeping minds of the opera's nighttime inhabitants.

Curled under her remaining blanket, Meg Giry shuddered at the sinister laughter, feeling it directed at her own foolishness. At the same time, however, she couldn't help but be entranced by it – it was a powerful, dark chuckle that rather intrigued her. Nevertheless, it was some time before she managed to drift off to sleep again, the silence of the slumbering Opera pressing on her ears.

A/N: Wee-ll, that was pretty long, wasn't it. Maybe I should make them shorter in the future. I really didn't mean for it to end up that size. And sorry it took so long to post. . I'm doing my best, but stick with me, please. I'd love if you'd review, even if you usually don't or have nothing particularly exciting to say – I just want to know people are reading this. So… say anything. Comment on anything – style, characters, etc – ask questions, rant at me but I don't care, really.

Oh, and I've been drawing some relatively fair (by my standards) phanart, if you guys would like me to post a link to it. But….to tell me, you might just have to review. So ha.

Love you guys, thanks loads for reading.

Paige Turner


	3. Puzzling a Phantom, Readying for Rehears

_Paige Turner: Hello again, and welcome back. Here is chapter two; behold. This was supposed to be two chapters, but since there was no good place to end it, I just kept going. I noticed I hadn't exactly described Meg fully yet, or given much info about her. The background info will come later. I know the description I have of her isn't exactly like the movie's but the changes I made are for a reason. . .For example, I want her to be nearly tall enough to look Erik and others in the eye, but still thin enough to be frail enough to be controlled. That sort of thing. _

_So. . . here we go. Enjoy. _

**Puzzling a Phantom, Reading for Rehearsal**

The next morning, Meg woke, warm and clutching a pillow to her chest under her blankets. She opened her eyes and saw her lamp and washbasin on the table beside her, and felt the weight of two blankets above her. With a sigh of relief, she closed her eyes again. _Dieu, merci_, she thought to herself. _It was only a dream_. She rose, lit her small lamp for light, and moved to pour water into her basin and wash her face, to wake up and wash away the dream of the night before.

Her water was already poured.

Meg stared at the full basin, confused, tendrils of doubt beginning to wrap themselves around her heart once again. She touched the water, and was surprised to feel that it was warm! She yanked her hand out and shook it dry, turning from the basin to her bed to sit down.

She gasped as she saw her bed, which she had not really looked at when getting up. Instead of her own threadbare blankets, her small bed was now covered with two fine quilts, one scarlet and the other black, of a finer cotton that Meg had ever felt on a sheet. She sat on the bed, running a pale hand over the soft, still warm sheets. She looked out at the room and saw, to her slight horror, a note stuck between the frame and glass of the full-length mirror by her dressing table. She rose and retrieved it, taking care not to break the death's-head wax seal on the back. In childish, disjointed crimson writing, it read:

_Mademoiselle, _

_Your sheets were a disgrace to my Opera. Please do not leave them lying around again. I have provided coverings that are more suitable, and I do not wish that you should ever think to use them as towels again. _

_Your singing was pleasant, but obviously untrained. Please acquire a voice instructor before attempting such a stunt again, and take care not to roam the Opera at night. You never know what could be waiting in the darkness. _

_Best wishes, _

_O.G._

Meg jumped as someone down the hall threw a switch and the electrical lighting in all the dressing rooms flickered on. Out of habit, Meg immediately blew out her lamp and set it back on her bedside table, still grasping the note and its envelope in one shaking hand.

She lay back down on her bed, pulling the fine blankets over her thin form, and held the note close to her face as she curled on one side to examine the note.

She was afraid there was not much to examine, really. The note was pretty straightforward – this Ghost had given her new sheets due to the poor condition of her own. If not for the insulting wording on the note, she would almost have thought it was a sad attempt at an apology for frightening her the night before – but no, the face she saw last night would not be one for apologies. Then, why had he bothered to find her new covers, and to return her lamp and washbasin? She had expected to be berated by her mother this morning for leaving them to be found by the early dancers so close to a performance, and instead no one but herself and this mysterious Phantom would ever know. This was an enormous relief to Meg, as her mother's wrath was known and feared throughout the Opera. Madame Giry had no reservations when it came to verbal or physical punishment of the Opera's girls or staff, and her daughter was given no quarter.

And why bother with leaving the basin full of warm water? Meg did not think that the water could have been there very long, warm as it was. That meant that the Phantom must have been in the room shortly before Meg awoke. The thought made her shiver and clutch her new blankets tighter to her. The idea of the terrifying apparition of the night before having been in the room with her unconscious body, possibly no more than mere minutes ago, was unnerving. Meg remembered uselessly that she had locked the door as she fled last night, but what were locks to a ghost? She sighed, and continued.

The next part of the note, the paragraph about her singing, well, it was nothing she didn't know already. She felt mildly insulted at the Phantom's requirement of lessons before she sang again, but she paid it no mind. She would never try such a stunt again, as the letter so adequately put it. The previous night's fear and the near-threatening end to the note ("_You never know what could be waiting in the darkness._") had, for now, completely killed her desire to journey through the Opera after hours.

Meg was jolted from her examination by the slightly distant sound of knocking as her mother made her morning rounds, pounding on each chorus girl's door until she sounded sufficiently awake, ready for an early rehearsal. With surprising speed, Meg bounded from her bed and across the room, pulling her sleek black night shift over her head and practically leaping into her practice ballet leotard, desperate to be dressed before her mother arrived. This was a frequent method of dressing – she would fix her hair and makeup once her mother had checked on her.

Meg had just finished adjusting her practice outfit when she heard the doorknob rattle under her mother's strong hand.

"Open this door, Meg!" came the imperious shout from just outside the small door.

"Oh!" Meg said in surprise, hurrying across to her door and turning the key in one smooth motion. It had slipped her mind that if the Phantom had come in without unlocking the door, he could leave in the same manner. A brief flicker of confusion and intrigue flitted across Meg's mind, as she considered the lock. The door locked only from the inside, and there was no way …. She trailed off in her mind. There was no "No way" when it came to what a phantom could do, after all.

As soon as the door was unlocked, Meg's mother swung the door open so quickly that it nearly hit her daughter. Meg looked down at her mother, who looked to be already in an easily irritable mood, even so early in the morning. Madame Antoinette Giry was an energetic woman in her late forties, five foot, three inches, with straight wispy blond hair swept up into a functional knot at the back of her head. Her icy blue eyes, exactly like her daughter's, glinted behind half-moon spectacles perched low on her thin-bladed nose and secured on her head by a thin jeweled chain looped behind her head. The wrinkle lines around her eyes and across her high forehead were deeper than usual this morning, as they always were in the time leading up to a performance.

"Why was this door locked?" she demanded, her voice harsh and irascible with her worry and tension.

"No reason," Meg said coolly, turning from her mother and picking up her rehearsal flounce and skirt and stepping into it.

Madame Giry was silent, frowning at her daughter's back. She knew she should say something, but nothing came. She sighed. She and Meg had been so busy since she came to the Opera, she with her job, Meg with her training, that they never really talked. They never really had, but they had always been in this together . . . and now it seemed they were moving on, and apart. Shaking her head slightly, exited the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind her and moving on down the row of dressing rooms, rapping on doors with a slightly subdued attitude.

Meg straightened, tightening her rehearsal skirt around her small waist with relief. Her mother was often snappish in the morning, especially before the opening night of a performance, and it was a relief not to be shouted at within the earshot of her fellow ballet rats. She stood straight and tall now, and checked her figure in the full-length mirror where she had discovered the mysterious note earlier. She allowed herself a brief moment of admiration for her figure, which she did not do frequently. She placed her hands around her waist and inhaled, enjoying the thinness of her waist verses the comparative fullness of her chest. She was a thin girl, with less than a hundred and thirty pounds spread over nearly a five foot, ten inch height. She was easily the tallest ballet girl, having inherited her height from her father, a large man of well over six feet. Her impossible height was essentially unheard of for a ballet dancer, though her long legs gave her an advantage when it came to looking graceful, as long as she did not get too tangled up in them in a turn. It had taken several weeks of practice to become used to her extra length, and her unnatural height was yet another reason that the more malicious rumors around the Opera said that Meg was only permitted because of her mother. But her extra work had paid off in the end, and Meg was quickly becoming to one of the best ballet under-dancers in the Opera.

She moved over to her dressing table, sat in a large, wooden chair, and leaned close to the mirror, frowning at her reflection now. She disliked what she saw here: large, ice-blue eyes framed by long, annoyingly pale lashes; skin so bloodless from sleep that she looked nearly dead; a high forehead over unruly dark blonde brows; blood-red lips slightly swollen from sleeping face-down; and a hard, slightly square jaw, all framed by two curtains of currently messy wavy blonde hair. Furrowing her brow at the image, she reached for the containers of blush and mascara on her dressing table, hurriedly applying both to her pale features. There was no time to waste, she thought to herself as she hurriedly spread a thin layer of blush on her high cheekbones, giving herself a more living appearance, and quickly stabbed at her face with a powderbrush. Equally quickly, she brushed mascara onto her pale lashes, creating a dark frame for her large, expressive eyes.

Straightening, she smiled again at her reflection. "Much better," she said, as she began dragging a hairbrush through her block locks with a vicious force, a loud ripping sound accompanying each rough, careless stroke. Then, ready, she spun away from the mirror and made to quit the room. At the door, however, she paused and turned. Changing her mind, she picked the Phantom's note from where it had fallen concealed in her new sheets and tucked it securely in the tightly tied waistline of her practice leotard and skirt. It would not do to have a maid come and find it, and learn of Meg's doings, or to take the note. Meg wanted to keep it, to examine it further at another time. Thus ready, she left the room, pulling it smartly shut behind her.

Meg hurried one door down the hall to the dressing room of her best friend, Christine Daae. As she reached the door, she paused, laying one palm flat on the smooth oak surface. She leaned closer. She could hear… was that voices? It was so quiet, a muttered and whispered conversation. Meg recognized her friend's high, clear voice, but there was another, darker, quiet, _masculine_ voice, Meg was sure of it! But there couldn't be – Christine was one of the few chorus girls not the type to welcome any nighttime visits by the Opera's patrons.

The sound of her mother's angry voice farther down the hall reminded Meg that she was supposed to hurry, and she quickly knocked sharply on the door. There came a slight gasp from within, almost immediately followed by Christine's cheerful, slightly abnormal "Come in!"

Meg entered, swinging the door open and stepping in with unusual energy. "Good morning!" she said, in an impression of excitement. "Ready for the big performance?"

Christine turned to her, rolling her large, lovely brown eyes. She was a beautiful girl, at Meg's age of seventeen, with tightly curly rich brown hair and porcelain skin. She was shorter than Meg, but even thinner, and her slimness gave an impression of fragility and beauty that would be enough to tempt any man, should Christine choose to pursue the evening activities of the other chorus girls. Meg was incredibly jealous of Christine's amazing looks and angelic voice, but so were over half of the other ballet girls.

"Of course!" Christine said with the same false enthusiasm. "Dancing around as a slave girl has been my dream for, how many years now?"

Meg laughed and glanced around Christine's room. "I heard you talking before I came in. Practicing?"

Meg's gaze riveted on Christine's face just in time to see a swoop of fear cross her eyes. She seized on Meg's excuse with a suspicious stammer.

"Y-yes, I was just going over my lines." Christine let out a slightly nervous laugh. "All six of them."

Meg smiled, a grin she made sure was full of friendship and no suspicion. Before she could speak, Madame Giry's voice came echoing down the hall, commanding all the ballet girls to be on the stage ready for rehearsal in two minutes. Without any further discussion, the pair left the room and hurried with the other chorus members down the long hall. However, Meg couldn't help noticing the apologetic, almost longing glance Christine shot back into the room as she turned to draw the door closed behind her. Then without any further delay, the girls rushed off down the corridor, joining the throng of similarly clothed teens, all thoughts of notes and voices leaving their heads.

For the time being, at least.


	4. Gossip among Girls, Confrontations with

Paige Turner: Hello again. Anyway, here would be the next installment, chapter three. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I have seen the movie, a glorious but still unsatisfying twice, and positively ADORED it. Only very few things left to be desired, I thought, but not any that others haven't ranted about. (My boyfriend was a little disappointed in it, especially in the singing, but he's been a Phan since early childhood. He was bound to be disappointed, especially in the singing. I liked it.) Anyway, I know the pictures presented in my story are a bit different from those in the movie, but I'd already written the beginning of this chapter when I saw the movie, and prefered that the basic picture remain my original one. I'm not really very good at painting with words, like I would like to be, but I do my best.

_This chapter, I think, tries to set up the tone of life at the Opera House. That's why I try to include little details about the other dancers, the attitudes and …..well, you get the general idea. Nevermind. Moving on. _

_As always, please review with any comments, assessments, etc. Love to hear from you, positive or negative. _

_Aaaaannnddd……enjoy!_

Chapter 3 Gossip among Girls, Confrontations with Carlotta 

The two girls hurried, laughing, through the long corridor from their dressing rooms to the stage. The journey was completely transformed in the daylight – the small corridor containing the girls' dressing rooms now visibly gave way to a much larger passage – several stories of dusty bare wood, already filling with a multitude of performers and staff preparing for the morning's rehearsal. A strip of crimson carpet ran the middle of the hall, a stream of bodies pushing down it so that the two friends were swept onwards by the multitude. The high-arched ceiling, several levels up, was faintly lit by the electric lighting, though many candles still burned in brackets on the ground level. Nearly finished props and costumes hung over wooden banisters, as did several bawdy maids and chorus girls, calling to their friends below.

There was only one phrase for the atmosphere of the Opera's backstage that morning – organized chaos. Already, the impending performance had worked the staff into a frenzy, and everyone rushed around, frantically attempting to ready for the busy day. In addition, everyone would be expected to be presentable for the arrival of the Opera's two new managers, Messieurs ­­­, and the as-yet-unannounced new patron of the theater, whose appearance had been rumored but not confirmed.

Moving quickly through the passage, Christine and Meg were frequently hailed by other girls. A happy air filled them all, as the excitement of young women combated their stress. The worry would come later – now, anticipation thrilled them at the prospect of the upcoming day.

The girls were swept onto the back of the stage with the rest of the ballet rats. Girls in ages ranging seven to twenty-seven comprised the ballet chorus, all clad similarly to Meg and Christine in pink practice leotards and long skirts over their tutus and tights, all clustered in groups of similar ages. Meg and Christine were soon joined by three other young ladies in their late teens – Lissette, Marie, and Julie. Julie and Marie were twins, identical slender brunettes with inherently kind dispositions. Few of their friends could tell them apart, though close companions like Meg and Christine had little trouble. Lissette was taller, though still shorter than Meg, with darker skin and large, exotic looking eyes. Her grandfather, it was rumored, had sired Lissette's mother by one of their house's foreign maids, and his wife had raised the child as her own. Lissette was a fun-loving girl, silly and mischievous. She was the humor to their small group, Christine was the beauty, Julie was the shyness, Marie was the outspoken one, and Meg was the darkness and the thinker. Companionship with each girl had brought out their shared qualities, though Meg considered Christine her only true friend – more like a sister than the casual level of friendship allotted the other young women.

The three other girls emerged from a conversation as Christine and Meg walked up. Marie, eager to include them, turned excitedly.

"Lissette thinks she's found out who the new _patron_ is," she said, her large green eyes sparkling. Marie loved gossip, and Meg was always eager to have such a steady source of information.

"Really?" Meg inquired, knowing that her comment was expected for Marie to continue.

Lissette nodded, her hands clasped gracefully in front of her as she rose from a stretch. She tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and smiled her trademark, mischievous smile. "Yes, I believe I heard M. LeFevre discussing it with his manservant last night as I . . . was meeting someone."

Meg ignored this final comment, fully aware of her friend's nighttime activities. Meg preferred not to discuss them, as Lissette took the business far more lightly than she did. "Well," she asked, eager for real information, "whom do you think it is?"

Lissette leaned in to tell, but Marie beat her to it. "A Vicomte," she said, grinning. "A real noble!"

"Young too," Lissette added, frowning at being interrupted. At Meg's _How would you know? _look, she added, "I heard M. LeFevre mentioning how he hoped that the young man knew what kind of commitment he was making, in pledging to support the Opera."

"Anything else?" Meg asked. "An actual name?"

"Oh yes," Lissette grinned, "de Chagny."

Christine gasped.

Meg stared at her. What was wrong?

At her friend's questioning look, Christine shook her head, her eyes still wide. "I knew a de Chagny vicomte, when I was very young."

Immediately the other girls' attention was focused on the brunette.

Christine shook her head. "It can't be him. When I traveled with my father, before he died, we spent a year with a kind family – that of the Comte de Chagny. He had two sons, and the younger – the vicomte – and I became great friends – even sweethearts." Christine finished her short story and lowered her eyes. Her friends looked at one another, then simultaneous grinning "Ooohhhh!"s issued all around.

"Oh, Christine, what if it's him?" Julie asked, taking Christine's hand.

"It can't be," Christine said, shrugging. "What are the odds? I'll never see little Raoul again. My friend of so long… with our times listening to my father tell stories, or play music… our picnics together in his attic…" She trailed off, and her friends smiled harder.

The touching moment was rudely interrupted by a high, accented shout from the doorway. Without looking, the cause of the disturbance was easily recognized as a cry of disgust from the Opera's prima soprano – Carlotta Guidichelli. Meg turned, her blonde hair swirling around her as she spun to see the cause of la Carlotta's upset, if there was indeed a cause to be seen. So often the self-absorbed diva created a disturbance merely for the sake of being noticed. As if one could overlook her…

The diva was already dressed in some semblance of a costume – the wire frame of an enormous and elaborate hat perched atop her dark hair, gold paint already covered her cheeks and forehead around excessive eye shadow and blush, a brown and gold bejeweled and embroidered bodice fitted too-snug over her corset, and a wire hoop-frame encircled her legs, marking where the skirt of her dress would hang. Meg knew that the entire costume was still being hurriedly finished, as she had passed it on her way to the stage that morning.

Lying on her back in front of the temperamental star lay one of the smallest ballet girls, having clearly just fallen. One side of Carlotta's skirt frame was slightly crushed, which showed where the child had fallen, and why Carlotta was so upset.

Meg glanced quickly to the practice bar, where a tall, graceful woman stood, stretching as though in her own world. Meg frowned. It was la Sorelli's unwritten job, as prima ballerina, to mind the smallest of the ballet girls. After all, she was their idol, and usually they flocked after the older woman like so many mindless sheep. But now, Sorelli seemed not even to notice that one of her unspoken charges had incurred the wrath of her co-star. Sighing, Meg started quickly towards the unfortunate child, ignoring the warning sounds from her friends.

Carlotta leaned over the child, pulling her up viciously by one arm. "Stupid, stupid little girl!" she shouted, shaking the small eight-year-old. "You little _rat_, look what you've done to my costume!" She reached down to strike the girl, never hesitant to show her violent temper when there were no fans or managers about.

_"Stupid, stupid child!" a man's voice roared. Meg could see nothing – her eyes were clenched shut. Hard, large hands gripped her upper arms, shaking her forcefully. "Don't you ever, _ever_ touch that again!" Each "ever" was accompanied by a vicious slap, snapping Meg's small blonde head back. She cried out in pain – _

The child's cry never came.

Meg's vision snapped back to the present, the memory flitting from her mind as quickly as it had entered. She was now staring down at a snarling la Carlotta, whose wrist was grasped firmly in Meg's clenched hand.

Meg towered over Carlotta as she yanked the girl's arm from the older woman's grip. The child immediately latched onto one of Meg's long legs, hiding and burying her small crying face in Meg's waist.

With a nearly feral snarl, Carlotta tried to wrench her wrist from Meg's iron grip, but the younger girl kept her long fingers locked tight.

"You impudent little whore!" the diva shrieked, drawing the attention of the few cast members who were not already focused on the confrontation. "Release me at once, you –" Halfway through her sentence, she gave her arm another sharp tug. Meg released her without comment, so readily and unexpectedly that Carlotta actually stumbled a step back from the force of her pull on her own appendage.

There was a titter of laughter from the surrounding crowd, which did nothing to improve Carlotta's rising temper.

"You think you funny?" she shouted, her superior air and Italian accent resurfacing.

No hint of a smile touched Meg's pale face. "Not particularly," she said quietly. A cold anger and a hot fear were battling for control over her stomach, it seemed. She knew that tangling with la Carlotta could greatly jeopardize her and her mother's positions at the Opera, but there had been no other option.

"You insolent little bitch!" Carlotta cried, her voice grating and nasal. "You dare assault me, _me_!"

Meg interrupted her. "You have no right to hit a child," she stated, her calm wearing dangerously thin. She took the small girl's hand in her larger shaking one, in an effort to regain her composure.

Carlotta snorted, stepping closer to Meg. Too proud to show her fear, Meg stood even taller, staring down her nose at the half-costumed diva. Her heart and breath were accelerating dangerously.

"You just _wait_ 'til I tell your mother that you have dared attack me," the shorter woman hissed dangerously.

"Would you also like to tell her _why_ I did so?" Meg asked, her voice shaking now. She was fixing to snap, and she didn't know what she would do.

Without warning, Carlotta lashed out with one well-manicured hand, attempting to slap Meg across the face. Without thinking, Meg threw up her left arm, the one that was not holding the smaller hand of the ballet child, and caught the diva's hand mid-flight. Neither woman's gaze had left the other's, though Meg's vision was beginning to tunnel dangerously in a building rage.

Slowly, Meg became dimly aware of multiple presences behind her. A soft hand on her shoulder told her that her friends had advanced, displaying their support of their comrade and their open dislike for the diva. The touch slowly drew Meg out of her anger, saving her from her impending stupid mistake.

The sharp tap of a cane alerted the women to the approaching presence of Meg's mother, Madame Giry. Striding in as if she noticed nothing out of the ordinary, the ballet mistress stopped a few paces from her daughter, glancing around at the assembled chorus girls.

"Why aren't you all warming up?" she demanded, her voice threatening. The cane she used to tap out time for the girls hit the ground quite hard several times to emphasize her point.

Immediately the crowd began dispersing, muttering to themselves as they lined along the _barre_s between several vertical wooden beams.

"Madame," Carlotta said imperiously, laying one hand on Mme Giry's arm. She adopted a sympathetic tone, as she looked at Meg in what she assumed was supposed to be an apologetic glance, but which clearly revealed her malicious intent. "I regret that I must inform you that your daughter –"

"Not now, Madame," Mme Giry interrupted her. Placing the hand not gripping her cane at the small of the diva's back, she forcefully guided her towards the front of the stage. She gestured with her other hand as she continued, "It seems that the orchestra has finished warming up now, and I'm sure Monsieur Reyer is eager to practice your lines as soon as possible."

Still frozen beside her friends, Meg could hardly refrain from snorting in laughter. M. Reyer, the orchestra conductor, had a nervous temperament hardly suited for Carlotta's screeching demands, and a musical ear too often tormented by her strident singing. Meg pitied the old man, who was actually a kind and grandfatherly figure.

Carlotta seemed pleased and pacified by Madame Giry's implied flattery, though her narrow-eyed glare at Meg showed that this insult would not soon be forgotten. However, she allowed the older woman to give her a slight push, setting her on her way upstage.

"Madame Sorelli," Mme Giry called, turning, and the shapely prima ballerina soon walked over. Meg unlatched the child still clutching her leg, and, ruffling her dark hair briefly, pushed the girl gently towards the older dancer. Without a word, la Sorelli took the child's hand and let her to the rest of her flock.

Madame Giry now turned to the five chorus girls still standing before her. Meg met her mother's eyes, and knew that she had seen the entire episode. But instead of being upset at the danger nearly involved, Madame Giry's normally stern face showed, to one who knew it, a silent pride in her daughter. Meg felt relief wash over her as her mother laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her towards and empty _barre_. All would be well.

Then the ballet instructor was as brisk as before, asking the girls sharply if they expected to stand around all day. Exchanging the briefest of mixed glances, the five girls hurried to their warm-ups, their looks promising that they would speak later.

Meg shook her head as she stretched. She didn't fully know what on earth she had just done! What had she been thinking – a young chorus girl, whom no one believed to possess real talent anyway – challenging the Opera's star? Meg strived to avoid confrontation with everyone, especially those in power. But Meg knew she could not have let Carlotta strike that child – something inside her found the action abhorrent in every way. Prima Donna or not, Carlotta would not be allowed to treat her underlings so harshly if Meg had anything to say about it.

Emptying her mind, Meg stretched in a series of deep knee bends. _Up… Down…_ she thought rhythmically as she moved. Her breathing and heart slowed as she focused on the clear music of the orchestra's rehearsal. Music always helped to calm and focus her mind. As Carlotta's high singing entered, projecting cruelly through the auditorium, Meg focused on the soft music behind the voice, and mentally reviewed her steps for the performance.

Soon, the young woman was completely calm again, though she doubted it would last long. Part of her had hoped that that would be the only untoward surprise of the day, but she knew that with an opening Opera that night, her day was far from over.

Well, I tried. Anyway, I don't think you should expect to hear too much about Meg's other friends, they'll probably die out in frequency of appearance as the chapters go on, but I thought they gave the story a bit of reality, plus showed a good and likely source of gossip information, rumors about the Opera Ghost, etc.

_As always, please remember that comments, critiques, yadda yadda, are much appreciated. Review, review. And thanks for reading, again. _

_-Paige Turner. _


	5. Interesting Introductions, a Diva in Dan

_Paige Turner: Hello again, my friends. For the reading few, here I have provided another chapter for your perusing pleasure. Most of what happens in this chapter is just a re-write of what happens in the movie, but with a twist that shows the characters of my characters more. Soooo…mostly a transition chapter; I know you're all waiting for original material, but it'll come. And soon. I promise. _

_As always, the game is simple. You review (in any manner, positive or not), and I worship you. Simple as that._

And I already gave a disclaimer, but just in case you've forgotten, I OWN NOTHING. Obviously. 

Chapter 4 Interesting Introductions, a Diva in Danger 

Christine Daae was becoming quite annoying to her best friend. The lovely brunette was cheating her stretches, rising quickly to peer around the crowded stage. Meg found the quick actions very distracting when she was trying to calm down.

"What _are_ you doing, and would you please stop?" Meg asked quietly.

Christine's head snapped back towards her, her eyes wide in apologetic guilt. "I was just looking around, what's wrong with that?"

"You're making me nervous with all that looking around. And you're not stretching properly – you better hope Maman doesn't catch you."

Christine nodded, a faint blush staining her rosy cheeks.

Meg looked at her closely. "You were watching for le Vicomte, n'est-ce pas?"

Christine nodded again.

Meg closed her eyes again, turning her attention back to her stretches. "Look, Christine, don't get your hopes up. There's all manner of ways gossip can be misunderstood, and even if Lissette got the name right, how do you know that this Raoul of yours hasn't another brother, or a cousin who also bears the title to the Chagny line?"

Christine spoke up quickly. "No, it must be him. His only brother, Philippe, is already a patron, I believe. Anyway, Philippe is twenty years Raoul's senior, and would not be described solely as "young". His sisters are much older than him, and are already married to men with their own lands, and he has no cousins on his father's side. No, I'm sure it _must _be Raoul!"

Meg nodded placatingly. "D'accord, mais don't blame me when you've gotten your hopes up and it turns out not to be him."

"Girls!" Madame Giry's harsh shout drew their attention as she came striding up to them, thumping the ground with her cane as she walked. "Have you finished warming up?"

"Oui, Madame," Christine said.

"Oui, Maman," Meg echoed.

Mme Giry gestured with her cane to a large wooden prop chest, one of many lined against a near wall. "Then go get the other girls and get the chains, so we can run through the routine of the final act, Scene Four again."

Nodding respectfully, the two girls motioned to the nearby girls, who had all heard their instructions, and they migrated over to the prop chest. In passing, Meg briefly met her mother's eyes, though neither spoke. For now, and likely forever, the incident with la Carlotta would remain unspoken between mother and daughter.

Meg joined the other girls, rummaging through the large wooden chest and untangling the thin metal chains. Soft encouragements from her companions were met with shy smiles from the tall blonde, and she thought herself likely to blush at such a display of support. But it was of no personal consequence – everyone loved someone who would stand up to Carlotta.

Meg helped to sort and organize the chains. The girls arranged themselves in groups of two or three, and Meg found the appropriate set of chains with which to secure their thin wrists. The chains required no lock to open, of course – a simple clasp was all that secured the otherwise convincing props. When all of the other girls were lined up appropriately and had received their props, Meg affixed the last pair of manacles to her own frightfully thin wrists. An odd number of ballet rats had resulted in the need for one girl to be chained separately, and Meg, as the tallest, had received that position. If the choice to be alone had been an indication of her talent, Meg would have been flattered – the only other dancer dancing alone was to be la Sorelli, who in this scene was playing Hannibal's lead mistress and queen of the harem. But it was merely the luck of genetics that gave Meg such an honor, and it was therefore one that she greatly wished to refuse. Her height came solely from her over-six-foot father, whom she did not want to remember. Being singled out for her height was a constant and painful reminder, despite the occasional advantages it brought.

Meg was pulled out of her disgruntled musings by a despairing cry from M Reyer, the orchestra conductor. She raised her head to watch the tense old man, peering up from his stand in front of the players.

"M LeFevre!" he shouted, waving the pit orchestra quiet with his baton as he called agitatedly up to the Opera's manager. "We are rehearsing, please!"

"I'll only be a moment more, M Reyer," M LeFevre assured him briefly. Meg and the other chorus girls crowded closer, intent on hearing the reason for such an interruption. Meg could see Lissette and Marie poking one another as they closed in, probably assuring each other that this morning's gossip was about to be proven true.

"As I'm sure you've all heard by now, there have been several rumors of my retirement. I regret to inform you that they are indeed true," here a flutter of gasps echoed around the stage, "and I now present to you the two new owners and managers of the Opera Populaire – Messieurs Richard Firmin and Giles Andre."

A round of applause was given for the new managers. The two men smiled and nodded, beaming proudly around at the cast. Meg couldn't help notice the way their gazes seemed to catch on the chorus girls her age, and was even less pleased to note the way Lissette and others gazed back.

Monsieur Richard Firmin was a tall man, with large features. His upswept, boxy hairdo was dark in the middle and greying on the sides. His dark eyes had the tendency to flash, though his large mouth looked easy to smile, and his face was dominated by a large, bony nose and thick dark eyebrows. He stood as though constantly drawing himself up to his full height, which was a considerable six foot, at least.

Monsieur Giles Andre was a smaller man, with an erratic grey hairstyle and a permanently smiling face. His eyes were a medium grey-green and took to darting rather than flashing as his companion's did. His mouth was constantly smiling in a rather nervous, thin-lipped way, and he gave the impression of a fun-loving, if materialistic man. Meg thought she might like him, if he were not currently ogling one of the elder chorus girls. As if hearing her thoughts, their eyes met, M Andre's eyes flicking up and down her inappropriately clothed body. Meg frowned and turned to Christine.

M Firmin spoke up. "We would also like to introduce to you the Opera Populaire's newest patron, le Vicomte de Chagny."

Christine gasped, her eyes going wide, a smile splitting her lovely face and seeming to light up the room. Her eyes riveted on the newest inhabitant of the room, a smiling young man Meg could only presume to be the Vicomte. He was of average height, with shoulder-length light brown hair, smiling blue eyes, and a complexion as fair as a young woman's. He seemed thoroughly delighted at being presented to the cast – honored even. Meg pegged him as an overly happy, and likely optimistic young man, the typical young noble. She glanced from the new patron to her starry-eyed friend.

"It's him!" Christine said softly, her voice strained from excitement. "It's Raoul."

Meg smiled at her obvious happiness. She kept the smile on her round face as she again turned to Raoul, who was being introduced to the Opera's stars – la Carlotta, Ubaldo Piangi, and la Sorelli. "Oh, Christine!" she said, her voice one of sisterly delight. "He's so handsome!"

Christine beamed at her, as if thanking her for her approving opinion, and Meg grinned back.

Once his introductions were complete, Raoul bobbed his head in an apologetic little bow. "I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsals," he said. Meg thought his voice was very pleasant indeed – a fine tenor, even and rich. "I will see you again tonight, to share in your triumph."

Then, raising a hand in farewell, Raoul turned and quitted the stage.

Christine looked extremely crestfallen. Her smile slipped, and she lowered her large eyes. "He wouldn't recognize me," she said softly.

Meg put a comforting hand on her friend's arm. "He just didn't see you, that's all," she reassured her.

Christine smiled hopefully up at her, and was about to speak when Madame Giry tapped her cane sharply on the floor, signaling the girls to take their places for the short ballet sequence in the last Act, Scene Four. In this scene, Hannibal returns from his war campaign abroad, laden with marauding elephants, soldiers, and a harem of chorus girls. His wife, Elisa (played by Carlotta, of course) opens the scene with a solo, announcing the triumphant return of her king, savior, and husband. At the exit of M de Chagny, Carlotta had immediately resumed her cruel projection of this proclaiming solo. As her song faded away into a presentation of Hannibal's party, Meg and her fellow ballet rats rushed onto the stage, playing the parts of the sensual harem girls, all under the appraising eye of Madame Giry.

Meg found it very difficult to play her part with her mother watching so closely. It was all well for the other girls – the role called for flaunting and they were more than happy to play it. But not only did Meg have trouble flaunting her body, it was even more distressing to do so when your mother is standing beside you, critiquing your every move. Meg watched her mother as she danced, dipped, swayed, and leapt around the other chorus girls.

Madame Giry seemed mildly distracted by the new managers, who were following closely behind her and, Meg noticed to her disapproval, staring rather hungrily at the chorus girls. With a stab of annoyance, she heard M Andre comment on "that little blonde angel," staring greedily at Meg as she danced, standing by herself and spinning in tight circles, kicking out to give herself more speed whenever her surrounding dancers ducked to a crouch. Meg gave no sign of having heard the comment and kept her eyes half closed, though she felt mixed emotions at the remark. She supposed she should be flattered, but she found the manager's lust for such younger women a little disturbing. Matches of such ages were accepted and common, but Meg was unnerved by being eyed so by someone more than old enough to be her father. It was with a sense of relief that she heard her mother say, with a touch of asperity, that the object of Andre's desire was her own daughter. That quickly silenced M Andre, though M Firmin quickly took the opportunity to ask about another, and far more attractive, dancer, Christine. With the same sharp tone, Madame Giry explained that while Christine was a promising young talent, she had come to regard the young dancer also as a daughter, in the six years since the death of M Daae. Firmin had heard of Christine's father, who was a quite famous Swedish violinist before he passed away from consumption, and praised his memory before turning his attention to other, more available chorus girls.

At this point, the other members of Hannibal's marauding column were making their way to the stage. The largest addition to the set was an enormous prop of a trumpeting elephant, laden with the spoils of war. Meg smiled as the orchestra before her swelled, and a deep, booming timpani rang out like the large footfalls of the elephant. That was her favorite part of any opera – the music. Her heart swelled with the crescendo of sound, and she couldn't help but dance a bit lighter.

At the same time, Meg's chained arms were caught from behind by a male chorus member, wearing the breastplate of the harem guards, but missing his helmet and armored kilt. These, along with the rest of the costumes, were being cleaned and repaired for the upcoming performance. Meg smiled up at the man briefly as he swung her into a low dip, pulling her up again fiercely to spin out and away to the next half-costumed guard. Meg grinned to herself as she remembered how she and the other chorus girls had briefly teased the men who were to play the harem guards. In reality, a harem would be guarded entirely by eunuchs, which Meg and her friends were only to happy to point out to those men selected to play harem guards rather than soldiers for this scene.

As she thought on the subject, a brief memory flashed to Meg's mind. The script had not originally pointed out the fact that the harem guards were to be eunuchs, and Meg doubted that any of the cast or staff had known or cared. Then, one day, Madame Giry pointed it out with such insistence that M Reyer was obliged to change the music for a higher range of singing, and the costume department was forced to slightly alter some of the guards' trousers. Meg was surprised that any change had been suggested – she doubted that the audience or patrons would notice the difference. And she was also surprised that Mme Giry had thought to point it out – Meg doubted her mother had ever seen a real harem, or eunuch, for that matter. But it had suddenly become very important to the entire staff that they get every detail of such a minor aspect of the play as Hannibal's harem exactly right, and Meg still had no idea why.

Pushing the thought from her mind, Meg concentrated on her dancing. The circle of dancers parted, and Ubaldo Piangi, dressed in a golden breastplate, scarlet kilt, and the frame of his plumed war-helmet, came striding up as the returning, conquering Hannibal. He sung a brief proclamation, announcing the state of his empire and the fact that he had returned triumphant from lands afar. He was happily greeted by his co-star and real-life lover, Carlotta/Elisa. She walked up to him, singing praises and expressing her joy at his return. Then the whole cast joined in, rejoicing at the party's arrival.

The song renewed in force, and Meg added her clear voice to the chorus as strongly as she dared. The circle of dancers rotated around the stage, displaying the traditional leaps and spins of the ballet chorus. Meg ended up to the rear of the elephant and found herself right in front of Messieurs Andre, LeFevre, and Firmin. She smiled dazzlingly at them when they met her eyes, and continued her high kicking routine, but inwardly she grimaced at their appraising glances. Still, she did not push away all thoughts of liking the new managers – it was her experience that no man could avoid the attraction of scantily-clad teenagers high-kicking right in front of him.

But the real reason Meg smiled so winningly at the slightly lewd glances the managers were shooting her way, was the fact that Carlotta had worked her way over to the left-hand side of the stage, right next to Meg. She was clearly trying to impress the two new managers, but they were entranced by the chorus girls. Meg smiled at Carlotta's obvious displeasure at being ignored so, and for once did her best to attract the attentions of the older men. The more it annoyed Carlotta, the less Meg cared if she was eyed so.

And Carlotta was evidently incensed at the managers' slight to her low-cut costume and high, powerful singing. Her already over-makeuped face was contorting into an expression of severe displeasure. Meg smiled as the diva gestured dramatically, making one last attempt to catch the attention of the smiling managers. Then, with a final, triumphant note, the song and the scene ended, each dancer holding their pose for however long it would normally take for the thick velvet front curtain to shield them from the view of the audience.

Carlotta wasted no time in making her views on the men's attractions very well known. As the two new managers turned to each others, smiles splitting their faces at the thought of a lucrative gala night performance, she stormed the few steps between them and prodded a long, elegantly manicured finger into M Firmin's chest.

"I hope your new patron is as excited by the dancing girls as you are," she hissed, her thick Italian accent making the low words difficult to understand. "Because _I_," her voice began to rise, "will not be _singing_!" This was ended in a shout.

Messieurs Andre and Firmin stood completely still, frozen in a confused shock. Abruptly, Carlotta spun on her heel and flounced away from the startled pair, calling for her maid, her tailor, and her poodle.

The two managers exchanged looks of bewilderment. "What did we do?" M Andre asked, his normally smiling face frowning in worry and confusion. "What do we do?" was M Firmin's question.

M LeFevre gave the two men in front of him an almost pitying look. He gestured helplessly at the back of the retreating diva in front of them. "Grovel," he said simply. "Grovel, grovel." He made shooing motions with his hands, urging them toward the disgruntled soprano.

Meg's face wrinkled into a sneer of disgust as first Carlotta, then the managers rushed past her and her knot of friends. Carlotta was gesturing wildly, threatening loudly in French and Italian that she was really leaving, she was unappreciated, etc, etc. The managers shouted praises after her, blatant lies that Meg thought would make her ears bleed for sure. But, as expected, Carlotta's ranting subsided as the praises echoed around the stage after.

She stopped at the entrance to the tall, multi-level corridor leading back to her dressing room. She turned and glared at the managers as they called praises after her as they hurried up.

"Prima bella diva!" M Firmin shouted.

"Notre jolie chanteuse mangifique!" M Andre followed, turning slightly red in the face.

"Oui, oui," Carlotta agreed, "mais –"

It was incredibly obvious that Carlotta intended to argue until the managers agreed to worship her. M Firmin was seized by an idea to placate the diva's anger without having to think up any more pacifying flattery.

"M Reyer," he asked suddenly, turning to the frustrated conductor, who had nervously ascended the stage in the managers' wake. "Isn't there a rather lovely aria for Elisa in Act Three, the… the….."

"Oui," Carlotta cut him off, "Mais non, pas pour moi, parce-que je n'ai pas ma robe pour l'aria, parce-que _someone_ not finish it!" She shot a dirty glance over at her own personal seamstress. "And," she added in a shout, almost as an afterthought, "I _hate_ my hat!" She burst into obviously staged tears.

"Please, madame," M Andre pleaded, "perhaps you could favor us with a private rendition," His eyes were pleading, desperate, and Carlotta noticed.

Ceasing her fake tears, the diva took one gold-painted hand away from her contorted face and arranged her hair distractedly, smiling winningly once again. "Well," she said coquettishly, "If my managers command…"

The pair exchanged relieved smiles. M Reyer, who had gasped in indignation at the manager's request, straightened as Carlotta turned to him. "Maestro?" she asked, smiling coldly.

"If my diva commands," he said stiffly and properly, equally cold.

"Yes, I do," she snapped, and strode huffily to front and center stage.

A collective sigh ringed the stage, as managers, staff, and cast alike resigned themselves to more exaggerated Italian singing from the reigning diva. Most dispersed around the stage, uneager to stand too near the projecting soprano.

M Reyer had resumed his stance at the pit orchestra's podium. "From the aria, then, s'il vous plait."

A soft piano melody began the tune, quickly overpowered by la Carlotta's strong, high notes.

_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye…_

It was the same aria Meg had sung the night before, in the solitude of the darkened theatre, except Carlotta's singing was higher, louder, and full of rolling _r_s. And, despite the strong, swooping singing and accompanying gestures, Meg still felt that the song lacked the feeling that she had given it last night, alone on the stage.

_But I wasn't alone_, Meg reminded herself, and the memory of the terrifying white face in the darkness, the malevolent laugh, the threatening words spoken and written, came crashing back to her. _He was here_, she told herself in her mind. _He was here, the Phantom of the Opera. _

As she thought, she found her eyes straying absently to the catwalks and rope-suspended bridges that hung high above the stage. She occasionally went up there when there were no stagehands about, to think, read, or listen to the pit orchestra practicing. At the moment, she could see no stagehands about. It seemed they were not at their posts.

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. No, there were none of the scene-changers around, but there _was _someone moving high above the stage in the maze of ropes and pulleys – a dark shape, black on black, only briefly backlit by light from a small candelabrum on one of the catwalks. Meg frowned, her eyes narrowing in attempt to identify the figure. She was certain it was no Opera staff, and the sudden swoop in her stomach made her think that she knew whom it might be.

_He's here,_ Meg thought, a little frightened now. _He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!_

As she watched, the figure stole silently to one of the tying bars that secured a magnificent landscape background. Meg couldn't be sure from her angle, but she thought it was the opening scene's background, a map of Hannibal's kingdom that hung in the front of the stage to which one of the chorus men, dressed as a wise historian, gestured as he opened the play with a brief history of Hannibal and his conquests.

Meg realized what was about to happen a few seconds before it actually passed. She saw the shudder of the giant canvas as the rope was loosed, a catch on one of the great pulleys, and stood transfixed as the backdrop began to plummet towards the stage. She shrieked, a high, piercing scream of warning as she seized the two girls nearest her, Christine and a younger redhead she knew only vaguely, and pulled them away from the falling scenery.

But in reality, only one member of the Opera's cast was in danger from the falling backdrop. La Carlotta, still projecting shrilly across the empty theater, had been standing directly underneath the huge canvas. And before any of the onlooking managers or cast were able to warn or move her, the enormous cloth fell heavily on the distracted diva, smothering her singing and enveloping her completely in its bulk.

_Not much of a cliffhanger, I know, since it's not very interestingly written and we all know what happens anyway. In case I hadn't mentioned it before, I will be using both movie and book elements in this story, but the beginning will for the most part be movie. As you see._

_Anyway, new material in the next chapter, I promise. 'Til later, ….review!_

_Love ya, _

_Paige Turner_


	6. Rushed Recastings, Irritating Instructio

Paige Turner: At last, here's the latest installment. We're finally through a bit of what was pretty much spelled out in the movie version – but I promise, it won't all be taken from the movie. This just works, so, voila.

**If you know me, you'd know I'm more than ready for this story to take a darker turn, away from the lighted world of the Opera proper and down into the darkness of secret passages and Meg's and Erik's minds, but some story must be set down first, unfortunately. I write whenever I can, I promise, and my schoolwork suffers for it, but I don't care. It is only the reviews of my readers that keeps me going. Don't y'all feel special? **

Chapter Five Rushed Re-Castings, Irritating Instruction 

Several other chorus girls echoed Meg's scream as the painted backdrop settled, one rope end secured stories above, the other slack but still attached, from where the black shape had untied it. As soon as the canvas had hit the singing diva, Meg's eyes had immediately snapped back up to the catwalk where she had seen the dark figure, but there was no sign of … whomever it was… anymore. As she watched, one of the stagehands, a particularly perverted man by the name of Joseph Buquet, rushed to the loosened pulley and began tugging on the dangling end of the rope. He pulled until he could hook the end around a winding wheel, much like the kind used to steer a ship, and used the leverage to raise the canvas from where it lay on the stage, smothering the self-absorbed la Carlotta.

As the canvas rose, Carlotta's enraged shrieks became louder as she was uncovered. Loud thumps mixed with Italian curses, several of which Meg actually knew, gave evidence that Carlotta was throwing a bit of a temper tantrum from her position on the stage floor. But still Meg did not tear her gaze from the flies, searching desperately for the black shape. Chorus girls crowded against her as they backed away from the rising canvas, none of them particularly eager to be the first seen by la Carlotta. After several seconds of being painfully jostled and not spotting the dark figure, Meg redirected her attention to the rising, irate diva.

Carlotta stood as soon as the backdrop was high enough to allow for her height and the frame of her hat. Raising herself to her full height, she shrieked insults at the managers in Italian.

Attempting to placate her, Monsieur Andre gave a nervous, thin-lipped smile. "Senora," he said, his voice shaking with nervousness as he glanced at Messieurs Firmin and LeFevre for support, "these things…do happen…"

Carlotta stopped her unintelligible tirade and stared at him for a few seconds. Then she began again, this time in French. "No. No, no, no. 'These things do 'appen?'" she mocked him, then whirled on M LeFevre, shouting. "For three years, these things happen, and did you stop them? NO. And _you two_, you as bad as 'im," she accused, jabbing her gold-painted finger at the new and old managers in turn. " 'These things do 'appen?'" she mocked again. "Until _you _stop these things from 'appening, _this thing_," she pointed forcefully at herself, "_DOES NOT 'APPEN!"_ Whirling away from the managers, Carlotta began once again calling for her pets and employees. "Ubaldo, andiamo! Bring my doggy, where my doggy, 'URRY!" And she was gone. All that remained was the last echoes of "Bye-bye, I'm really leaving now," that echoed down the backstage corridor.

The new managers were speechless. They turned to each other in shock, unable to believe what had just happened. They turned in unison to M LeFevre, just in time to see him don a bowler hat and pick up a swagger stick much like Madame Giry's cane. He saw them watching him and gave a nervous smile.

"Well, gentlemen," he said brightly, "good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia."

The cast gaped after him as he followed Carlotta backstage.

Meg stared after the departing pair, her eyes narrowed, her mind whirring. Well, this was an improvement, she thought. Her adversary of that morning was gone already, though it was a shame that the new managers had to meet with such misfortune so early in their reign. But whatever were they going to do about the performance? Opening nights were massively important social events, as nobles and the very wealthy attended the gala performances. But now their leading lady had vanished, and it was likely that Ubaldo Piangi would fail to show if Carlotta requested. And, as she heard the new managers discover with great displeasure, Carlotta had no understudy. It was never expected that she would need one, or that one of suitable talent would be found.

If only she could sing it! Meg lamented silently. She _knew_ all of Elisa's lines – Meg had been present during enough of Carlotta's rehearsals and her memory for songs and the like was surprisingly good. She remembered her encounter of the night before, and cursed herself mentally. It was a simple lack of talent that kept her from the life she wanted, her hidden desire. And hidden it would always remain.

Christine too looked very distressed. Meg looked over at her concernedly.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she asked, putting a hand on Christine's arm.

Christine did not at first appear to hear her. Her eyes were unfocused, staring at emptiness somewhere between herself and the stage floor. Then, slowly, her head lifted, and her eyes rose to the catwalks and flies and beyond. She looked transported like one who had been visited by an angel and was both honored and afraid, Meg thought. Meg felt sure that her friend was no longer standing in front of her, that her mind was far away, and Meg couldn't yet understand it.

Meg repeated her question. "What's wrong?" she demanded more forcefully this time, peering down onto her friend's upturned, lovely face.

Christine appeared to notice her at last. The glow faded from her eyes and cheeks, and she again lowered her gaze to the ground. "Just… wondering what was going to become of the opera," she muttered, her face continuing to pale and fall.

Meg's face softened, and she suddenly looked much friendlier and prettier. She shouldn't have gotten sharp with Christine – sometimes she forgot how much of a child the shorter girl really was. Her sheltered life with her father and his subsequent and recent death had left Christine with a damaged sense of reality, and Meg thought that as her friend, she should be more understanding.

"I'm sorry, mon amie," Meg said softly, also lowering her eyes. "I was just worried about the opera too. It's such a shame for Messrs. Andre and Firmin…" she trailed off, then added, "I only wish…there was…someone who could sing…. a way for the opera to go on."

Christine opened her mouth hesitantly to say something, but suddenly Madame Giry's strong, old French accent pierced the girls' quite conversation. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir." Both girls snapped towards Mme Giry and the managers, eyes wide.

Meg froze. Christine? Surely not! She felt as though her stomach had shrunk into a heavy lump of ice, and for some reason she felt betrayed. Why would her mother recommend Christine? She and Meg had sung together before – Christine had talent, a perfect pitch, in fact, but she so lacked passion and emotion that her singing was nearly mechanical. Both girls sang in the quiet way associated with intense shyness; why would Meg's mother choose Christine over her own daughter?

Meg ceased her mental tirade as M Andre voiced her own doubts.

"She can sing it," Mme Giry assured him. "She has been taking lessons from a great teacher."

Meg frowned at her mother. "Who?" she asked simultaneously with M Andre.

Christine glanced back guiltily at Meg before turning back to the managers with an apologetic shrug and a pained expression. "I don't know his name, Monsieur."

Meg's face was empty but her mind whirled. When did this happen? Christine rarely left the opera house, not since the death of her father had left her without family to visit. For two years now, Christine had lived with Meg and her mother as permanent residents of the Opera Populaire, and as far as Meg knew, neither of them had ever been approached by a private tutor. This simply could not be! Christine _never_ left the Opera without her, and they were often together during their free time between rehearsals. True, recently there had been several times when Meg had preferred to read, think, or listen to the orchestra alone, but these times were scattered and few, and there were always the other chorus girls around. And how could she meet a "great teacher" and never learn his name?

M Reyer sighed, obviously resigned to an operatic humiliation. "Very well, ma'm'selle, from the aria." He walked back to his podium in front of the orchestra and cued the light piano opening.

Christine was shaking slightly as she stepped forwards, looking very young in her practice skirt and leotard. M Andre smiled encouragingly (and slightly desperately) at her, though M Firmin looked as though he might become ill with nerves.

_Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you'll try. _

Meg hardly kept herself from gasping. The pureness of tone, yes, Christine had had that before, but now there was such _life_, such _passion_ to her music! Despite the nerves shaking her voice, the notes were still beautifully clear, and though they were not as strong as la Carlotta's, they still echoed around the empty auditorium with a chilling resonance and beauty.

Christine threw one frightened, unsure look over her shoulder at Meg and Mme Giry. Meg gave a bright, reassuring smile, hiding the brief flare of jealousy that twisted her heart. Meg's mother made an encouraging gesture for Christine to step forwards, and take her place at the front of the stage. Christine took heart from the motion and moved forward, her singing growing in strength and confidence.

Suddenly, Meg's attention snapped to the small object held in her mother's hand, what she had used to gesture towards the stage. It was a small, cream-colored envelope, and as Meg focused on it, she recognized that the red wax seal was in the form of a leering death's head – identical to the one wedged in Meg's mirror that very morning!

_The Phantom of the Opera!_ Meg thought, her blood chilling with recognition. _He _is_ here, and this is his doing! The backdrop, and now…Christine?_

_There will never be a day when I don't think of you…_

Was this how Christine could suddenly sing so well? Was this the reason she had raised her eyes to the rafters as if searching for a message from God? Meg felt a chill run down her spine at the beauty of Christine's song, but it was not simply a proud, happy shiver. What was happening to her friend?

Meg had no more time for thought as Christine breathtakingly altered the end of the aria – sliding and spiraling along the entire length of her impressive range. The orchestra played its few remaining final measures, then all fell into a breathless, stunned silence.

M Andre broke the silence first, clapping his hands rapidly together and cheering loudly. Meg jumped, startled, as the rest of the cast erupted into applause behind her. She hadn't noticed them crowding around.

Christine turned from the empty auditorium, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling. She smiled hugely but sheepishly, stepping weakly from the edge of the stage.

Pushing her questions and jealousies quickly out of her mind, Meg leapt forward and caught Christine in an enormous hug.

"Oh, Christine! That was amazing!" she said, letting genuine awe suffuse her voice.

The smaller brunette seemed frozen under her grip, astounded by her unexpected success and the applause of her fellow cast members.

_Oh, if only Carlotta could be here to hear her,_ Meg thought with bitter triumph. _That'd show her._ She released Christine, intending to spark a happy reaction from her, and found that Christine had once again raised her eyes beseechingly to the ceiling.

_Not now, Christine,_ Meg thought worriedly, and wrapped her long pale fingers around Christine's arms. "Christine…" she said softly, coaxing her friend back down to earth. "Hey…"

Again, Christine appeared to slowly become aware of Meg's words. She lowered her eyes from the maze of backdrops and catwalks onto Meg's round, smiling face, honest joy shining through at her friend's triumph. It warmed Christine's heart and brought a similar smile to her lovely face.

Meg's smile widened, and the two fell to the childish bouncing and high, excited speech of delighted young girls. But all too soon, their revelry was interrupted by a stern rapping of Madame Giry's cane upon the stage floor.

"Girls, compose yourselves!" the severe ballet mistress snapped, and the two young women froze guiltily, with quiet, apologetic murmurs.

"Yes, yes," M Firmin agreed hurriedly. "We have very little time. Mme DuLevre," he called loudly to the head seamstress, "take Mademoiselle Daae and have Elisa's costumes altered to fit her, quickly, quickly!"

He pushed Christine half-roughly towards the approaching seamstress. Madame DuLevre, a plump, red-faced, harried-looking woman, came bustling forward, seized Christine by and arm, and proceeded to haul her roughly away to the costume corridor.

M Andre had thought of another problem. "But who will dance Mlle Daae's place?" he asked worriedly.

Mme Giry placed one arm securely around Meg's shoulders, and Meg straightened under her touch. "My daughter can dance her parts," she said confidently, her old accent heavy with pride. "Mlle Daae had no prominent roles, and as long as we work quickly, Meg can replace what is important in the chorus parts. I will work with her personally."

Meg glanced briefly at her mother, but the older woman did not look at her. Meg kept her face expressionless and businesslike, and nodded. There would be several scenes to run through, she knew – a number as village women fleeing from Hannibal's army, one as Elisa's handmaidens, a very small scene as women seeing Hannibal's army off, and the final large scene as harem girls. Meg had been given two brief solo roles, as a pleading young village woman and as one of Elisa's servants, but luckily Christine had no such roles. Still, this would not be easy.

The remainder of the morning was spent in fevered run-throughs of the ballet chorus's principal numbers.

The first scene they practiced was one of the smaller ballets, when the elder chorus girls were to lead the younger girls by the hands in a brief and simple dance, acting as Hannibal's subjects, seeing the army off on their conquest. Madame Giry called in a male member of the chorus, the one playing the historian at the beginning of the play, and had him reading his opening narrative. With some trepidation, the map backdrop that had fallen on la Carlotta was lowered, to give the girls an idea of how much room they would have do dance. To the time of the historian's tale, the ballet rats performed their dance of farewell with a nervous air – that morning's excitement had set everyone's nerves on edge. But luckily, this scene was judged to require no change for Christine's absence, and the group quickly moved on to the next number.

The next scene they rehearsed was the opening of Act II. It opened quietly, with the ballet chorus performing a simple dance portraying ordinary village life, which was soon "interrupted" as the men's chorus joined them in the dance as Hannibal's ravaging army. They had to run through this scene several times, as Madame Giry paced nimbly atop the dividing wall between the front row of seats and the orchestra pit, slapping her cane loudly against the orchestra side of the rough stone wall. After two complete run-throughs with the girls only, and another with the men's chorus joining them, Mme Giry decided that during the quiet section of the ballet Meg would keep her own place, with two other girls dancing closer together to hide Christine's absence. In the latter section of the dance, however, Meg would have to move from her position at the back of the group to Christine's spot in a line of dancers at the front.

This was difficult for several reasons. First, Madame Giry would have to insert a brief mass movement towards the center of the stage before the pairs separated into two lines at the fore and back of the stage, to mask Meg's movement between parts. But the hardest part to master was the unison line movements of the front-row dancers, which were a mirror of the back-row moves. This required several run-throughs, and Meg fretted continuously at the inconvenience she was causing to her fellow chorus members. Her every mistake was accompanied by annoyed groans and sighs from the men and women around her, and apologetic winces from Meg herself. She hated being the problem, and she feared that no amount of practice would save this dance number, possibly even the Opera. She simply stood out too much – that was the reason she had been placed at the back to begin with. Her abnormal height was less noticeable at the back. In addition, she felt there was no way her long-limbed movements could match the slender grace of Christine's dancing, especially no now that Meg was only beginning to master the steps.

But they had no other options. None of the other chorus girls learned as quickly as Meg could. And Meg had even spent time helping Christine to learn her parts. And, though none said it, little Giry was probably one of the few who could take endless hours of being the focus of her mother's assessing, critical, biting instruction without being reduced to hysterical tears.

Soon, Madame Giry dismissed the chorus for a fifteen-minute break, with instructions to seek out la Sorelli and practice the final number under the prima ballerina until Mme Giry summoned them again. Meg, of course, was given no such break, and spent the time again and again running through her new part.

Her mother still agitatedly pacing the orchestra walltop, Meg danced alone across the length of the stage. She twirled and leapt, no thoughts within her head save those of her dance. She muttered softly to herself along with her mother's shouted commands, setting each move firmly into her memory.

"Non, non, Meg!" Mme Giry shouted, startling a practicing cellist into silence. Meg had just spun the wrong way on a**pirouette, and her mother now left the walltop and strode back to the fore of the stage. **

** Meg pushed her now damp blonde locks away from her hot, sweaty face and watched tiredly as her mother approached. "I'm sorry, Maman," she said, her voice tired but defensive. "I'm _trying_."**

** Mme Giry cut her off, her severe face and slightly escaping hair no longer cool and collected. "You must try _harder_," she said sharply, "until you no longer _try_, you _do_." **

** Meg felt her temper rising for the second time that morning. She was tired, worried, and confused, and she _was_ trying, and she said as much, nearly stamping her slippered foot childishly. She would have stamped too, if she didn't already known that her toes that her toes had already begun to bleed slightly inside her toe shoes, and she didn't want to injure herself prematurely. **

** At her mother's curt command, Meg attempted the pirouette again, her long tired legs causing her to wobble ungainly. **

** "Non, Meg!" Mme Giry cried again, hitting her cane forcefully against the floor. **

Meg rounded on her, blonde hair flying, eyes flashing. "Well, it's rather hard for me to do without a partner!" she said, her voice rising.

The thin black, silver-tipped cane made a loud slapping noise as the ballet mistress hastily discarded it onto the floor. Mme Giry strode behind her daughter, straightened Meg's posture and positioned her limbs quickly and forcefully, and demanded she try again. Stilling a sigh, Meg complied, her mother's strong hands supporting her in the dance.

"Yes, yes, good, Meg, good," she said approvingly, as Meg successfully completed the entire series of movements after several more minutes. "Très bon. Assieds-toi"

Needing no further encouragement, Meg gragefully collapsed onto the floor in a flurry of pink practice skirt. She pulled up her hair, holding it in a messy wad off of her neck.

"You are doing very well, child," said Mme Giry, sitting more slowly beside her daughter. She smother her light brown, slightly greying hair back into her bun. "This could be a big chance for you."

Meg let out a decidedly unladylike snort and turned to her mother. "_My_ big chance? Maman, this is a big chance for _Christine_, not me." Her voice became softer, and she turned back to face the empty auditorium. "No one will notice me unless I fail. Thus, I will be quite happy to stake quietly in obscurity." She wondered briefly if her mother meant that this would lead to her being noticed by a man. Meg was old enough to begin arranging a marriage, and it was frightfully difficult to find any sort of respectable man willing to marry an Opera ballet chorus girl, but Meg did not want to think of a prospective match yet.

Mme Giry did not reply immediately, and the two women sat quietly and listened to a quiet violin duet issuing from the orchestra pit. Meg closed her eyes and lost herself in the beautiful duet, emptying her mind and calming her heart. She soon became so enthralled in the music that she almost didn't hear her mother's next, soft words.

"You will be great someday, child."

Meg looked over at her, one eyebrow raised, her hair falling across her face. "Comment?"

Mme Giry did not appear to hear her. She sat stiffly, her back ramrod straight, one arm raised to grasp her cane vertical to the floor beside her. Her eyes were unfocused, gazing out into the empty auditorium. Meg followed her gaze to one of the low-tier boxes on the left side of the stage. Meg couldn't see well past the stage lighting a few paces in front of her, but she had the strong suspicion that the box under her mother's gaze was number five – the one rumored to be haunted by the dreaded Opera Ghost. Madame Giry sometimes serviced that box during performances, to pick up a few extra francs for the two of them, though she had never felt inclined to comment on any of the rumors involving her connection to the Opera's mysterious Phantom.

"Some day you will be an Empress."

Meg frowned. What was this? What was she talking about?

"What do you mean, Maman?"

Mme Giry looked around quickly, startled that Meg had heard her comment. She flushed, and shot another nervous glance out at box five. She was suddenly aware of a terrifying frown of disapproval. She should not have spoken aloud! What if he had not wanted his plan revealed? Would he still help them?

"Maman?" Meg asked worriedly. Her mother looked terrified. "Are you alright?"

Madame Giry leapt to her feet, tearing her gaze away from the haunted box.

"I'm fine, Meg," she said quickly, but she didn't look at her daughter. She turned and walked briskly away, her severe, lined face slightly paler under the brighter overhead lighting, her simply graceful black dress rustling softly as she strode to the center of the stage.

"Madame Sorelli, if you would please…"

Meg stopped listening, her gaze drawn back outwards to the auditorium. She followed her mother's path to Box Five, and though she couldn't see anything, she felt the strangest sensation of being watched. She remembered last night's encounter, and a shiver trailed its icy fingers down her spine.

With a haste that matched her mother's, Meg looked away from the dark seating and followed the ballet mistress, resigned to further hours of grueling practice. The day was still young, after all. She pushed away the questioning thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her mind, and devoted her thoughts instead to the upcoming Opera. They would all need their full concentration (and a minor miracle) to make it through this performance successfully.


	7. Beginnings and Backstories

**Paige Turner: Well, this chapter is all from Erik's thoughts, giving us backstory on, like, everything. I had originally planned to give the Girys' story later, but I just started writing, and this came out, so deal. I hope this isn't too rambling, and that it clears some stuff up. I hope my Erik is suitable to you all. **

Oh, and Adrienne, that is the freakin best review ever. You make me so incredibly happy, all you reviewers do! tears up, fans her face with a handkerchief

**Anyway, here you are. Enjoy. **

**Chapter Six: Beginnings and Backstories**

Deep in the shadows of Box Five, Erik sat immobile in his chair, as regally as if it were a throne. After removing that presumptuous soprano and delivering his welcome note to his Opera's new managers, he had stolen ghost-like up to his usual seat in Box Five to watch the unfolding drama.

_This is better than an Opera!_ He thought happily to himself, as he stared down at the cast and crew like a god over so many scurrying ants. _Drama, plot, emotion, and such excellent delivery!_ He was in a surprisingly good mood. Tonight was the night, the night his triumph would be revealed to the world, accepted and praised as it should have been for fifty years.

Things were going well for Erik that day, and he thought back on the events of the previous night. After his game with that curious little chorus girl, he had returned to his subterranean lair and retrieved two of the plainest bed coverings he owned – two of many purchased months ago, as he designed a room for his beloved Angel. He had followed secret ways known only to him, which led him on a familiar path to a corridor adjacent to the chorus girls' dressing rooms. Each room was in possession of a full-length mirror, set into the wall, to which Erik had rigged complex systems of counterweights, which allowed them to be opened with a precise touch of a hidden mechanism. Thus every room had an access to his domain well hidden from foolish outsiders – an escape route for a trapped Phantom, if ever the need arose. He had opened the girl's mirror silently and, when she made no reaction, stolen to her bedside with the grace and silence of a prowling cat.

The child was already fast asleep, curled under the covers, arms tightly clutching one thin, worn, pillow. Her face was buried in her pillow, but half of it was revealed as he pulled the cover away from her sleeping form. It was then, in the near pitch-blackness of the dressing room, that he had recognized her – little Meg Giry. He had nearly laughed when he remembered the girl, remembered why her mother so faithfully assisted him, what he had promised the old woman. It truly was hard not to laugh at this fortunate irony! So this secretly bold young woman was the little girl whom he had promised to further. Erik had smiled behind his porcelain mask. She would need little of his help to progress, if she played her cards right. But it was Erik's job to deal those cards.

With unnatural speed and precision, Erik had lightly pulled away the girl's remaining, tattered blanket and spread each of the fine, rich new covers over her with a silent flourish. He saw her visibly relax as the weight of the velvet settled gently over her long, thin frame. He then placed her – formerly _his_ – brass lamp and porcelain washbasin on her bedside table, and left silently by way of her door.

He traveled quickly, no more noticeable in the darkness than a shadow. A short distance away, in the small, dusty kiln-room where a majority of the Opera's props were made, he had drawn a steaming bucket of hot water. He had then made his way back down the long dressing-room corridor, his naturally smooth, rolling step preventing the bucket from sloshing.

Back in the girl's room, he had poured the steamy water into her newly returned washbowl. Meg had not stirred at the soft _click_ of the door latch or the quiet sound of the pouring water hitting the bowl. Erik thought that it was late enough in the morning that by the time the girl awoke, the water would still be warm. Erik had smiled at the thought of her finding her returned possessions and his gifts. What a shock she must have gotten! She would probably have been trying to convince herself it had been a dream! Erik laughed again, and exited the room by way of the mirror, sliding a brief note between the glass and frame once it had closed behind him.

His encounter with the Giry girl had cheered him up greatly. Before, his anticipation of the upcoming test of his Angel's voice and his teachings had made him quite anxious. He would have thought he would have conquered nervousness after all these years, but there he sat, nervous as any suitor a third his age vying for the attention of the young lady of his dreams. And well he should be nervous – everything hinged on the following night. And so he had tried to distract himself with dreams of the future, delusional plannings of a life he hardly dared hope for. Then the storm had subsided, and he sought out a drip and found an errant chorus girl. Their encounter had amused him greatly – he always enjoyed hearing the terrified tales of frightened ballet rats. It had been a while since he had last played with one of the young women, and he found it refreshing. They were usually such flighty creatures, filing his halls with childish giggling, flocking after that Sorelli woman like so many wool-headed sheep, soiling his rooms and back corridors with their nighttime antics. Frightening the silly children was one of the more pleasurable aspects of maintaining his dark reputation.

Erik sat now in his velvet-lined chair, deep in the shadows of Box Five, watching as the aftermath of his instructions played out on the stage below. His previous apprehension had been replaced with an unusual cheerfulness at seeing his plans progressing so smoothly. Unfortunately, that new man, Richard Firmin, had sent his Angel to the back for costume adjustments, so her glorious song no longer graced the room. But nevermind. For now, Erik was content to await her return, and watch the rehearsals.

In his focusing on his Angel's progression, he had forgotten that a cast change so soon before the performance would catch many others unprepared. Erik oversaw the rushed run-throughs critically. Antoinette had volunteered her daughter to replace Christine in the ballet line. Now the tall, thin blonde girl was giving her all to do her very best for the sake of the Opera, visibly racking both body and mind to master the steps as quickly as possible. Erik commended her effort; even if she was none so pleasing in the dance as the slim, angelic Christine, there was a grace to her long limbs that he knew many would find attractive.

He watched as the two Giry women practiced alone at the fore of the stage, both laboring under a strong sense of duty and responsibility to the Opera and its inhabitants. Erik knew that Mme Giry included him at the top of the list of those at the Opera whom she sought to please, and again he was reminded of his promise to the old woman.

Erik recalled the time, nearly ten years ago, when the Girys had first come to his opera house. He had barely known of their existence before it was announced that Antoinette Giry was to be the new assistant ballet mistress, teaching the young beginner ballet students, whose number her seven-year-old daughter, Meg, would soon join. Erik had been slightly shocked when he overheard the finalizing of this agreement. The decision had been made with unusual speed and secretiveness, suggesting the involvement of an outside force with considerable influence over M LeFevre. Erik had been furious that the manager had not consulted him before this hasty appointment, and no amount of apologies from the frightened old man had deterred the Phantom from welcoming the new assistant ballet mistress and her daughter with many of his usual tricks. Whispers had followed staff and crew members through the corridors, phantom shapes were glimpsed in mirrors or in the shadows around corners, and candles flickered on and out in inexplicable gusts or wind. However, the new addition to the staff had refused to be intimidated, and Erik had eventually lightened his relentless haunting in favor of the woman's strength and determination, and allowed Madame Giry and her daughter to join the Opera's family in peace.

Their first few months and the Opera Populaire marked many changes in the ladies Giry. At the time of their arrival, the child had been a little wisp of a girl, with wide pale blue eyes set in a thin pale face and framed by pale blonde hair. Her intensely shy demeanor had endeared her to several of the older chorus members, prompting them to attempt to take her under their wings, though it was clear that the child found it hard to trust the older girls' obvious sincerity.

He had taken the barest of curiosities to the small, ghostlike child and her stern, overprotective mother, but no amount of threats towards M LeFevre could reveal to him why the two had arrived so suddenly at his opera house. All the desperate man could say was that the two had been spoken for by a former patron, a Monsieur Rudolphe Giry, who had requested that the two be given employment and lodgings at the Opera Populaire, before making one final, very substantial donation to the establishment. In the face of such money, M LeFevre admitted, he had acquiesced to the poor man's wishes (as he had looked very nervous and unwell indeed) and hired the elder Mme Giry and enrolled her daughter as a member of the youngest chorus.

It had taken weeks for the thin little girl to stop jumping at her won shadow, or flinching every time she was addressed by someone larger than herself. But, strangely, one of the few things that the child was never frightened by was the morbid stories of the Opera Ghost. Erik thought that his increased haunting of the corridors would have terrified the timid little girl, but she seemed to possess an inner strength that shielded her from the fright of Erik's malicious game. Instead, the girl's ice-blue eyes would light up, and her pale cheeks would glow as she satin the dormitories with the other youngest girls, and listened to the dark explanations of the most recent inexplicable events. Meg's young mind was fascinated by the idea of a ghost, though Erik suspected that she did not really believe in him, or in anything supernatural at all, for that matter. He saw in the daughter the same steely practicality that so infused the mother.

Madame Giry, a severe-looking woman in her early thirties, had not been frightened or amused by his antics when she arrived at his opera house. She too was wary of companionship, and probably saw the strange occurrences as attempts to hasten her departure, though the seamstresses and maids did their best to make the troubled woman feel at home. She was fiercely protective of her young daughter, and Erik saw this as an excellent opportunity to secure a loyal servant among the opera staff.

He had long desired someone under his control in the opera whom he didn't have to blackmail at every turn, who would serve him of his or her own free will. Erik saw the way young Antoinette pushed her daughter to excel, to be independent and strong and to aspire for greatness as the best dancer in the corps, and he realized that she would do anything to provide her daughter with a stable future. He therefore thought of an excellent way to secure Madame Giry's services and loyalty.

He had left a note in her small room, instructing her to come to Box Five on the Grand Tier at half past seven in the morning, to discuss a possible raise and her daughter's future. Erik knew this final note would ensure the woman's attendance.

Erik had hidden himself in a hollowed-out column between Boxes Five and Three, waiting patiently until half-past seven. Precisely at seven thirty, Madame Giry had arrived, her eyes flashing into the shadows, hair pulled severely back into a bun uncommon to her thirty-three years, garbed in a faded black taffeta gown. It was clear from her stance that she suspected a prank of sorts, but her rigid back and high-held head stated clearly that she was in no mood to be made light of.

"Ah, Madame Giry," he had addressed her, throwing his voice so that it issued from the empty velvet chair. "Please, take a seat."

She gave a start at his voice, but quickly recovered, with no sign of surprise other that the suspicious way her eyes darted from side to side. Antoinette Giry was not a superstitious woman, but the disembodied voice issuing from an apparently empty chair was enough to disturb her. There was a brief pause as Erik watched her puzzle out if it was safe to sit in the chair, since that was where his voice was "seated." He briefly considered giving a cry of pain as she sat, as though she had crushed his voice, but he decided against it. This no-nonsense woman would respect him more if he were the businesslike, aloof Ghost of legend. Instead, he instructed her to pick up the envelope on the rail in front of her and examine its contents. Inside, Erik had compiled as brief list of ballet members who had recently secured marriages to the upper nobility, even royalty. At the end of the list, in his rough, childish script, he had included the line, "Meg Giry, prima ballerina – Empress."

"What does this mean?" Madame Giry had asked, her voice hard. "What do you want from us?"

"My dear Madame," Erik had boomed seriously, "my proposal is quite simple. Of late, have found myself in need of several things. First, I require a reliable box attendant, who will hold my box for me, bring me a program, etcetera. Not one of those usual flighty women seeking a few extra francs, who will seek to disturb me during the performance. As assistant ballet mistress, you should find that this would agree most pleasantly with both your schedule and your financial situation." He paused, but Mme Giry did not speak, continuing to stare calmly down upon the empty and curtained stage. "In addition, I require a reliable messenger, who will deliver any further correspondences between myself and my management, and one who is loyal to the Phantom of the Opera."

"And in return?" Mme Giry inquired formally.

"And in return, I shall look out for your financial interests, and promote your daughter. I can see to it that little Meg is made the leader of her line, is given extra parts…" he trailed off enticingly, and Mme Giry made a small gesture with his note. "Yes, Madame. I can make that list come true."

He could tell that she was swayed by the thought of what this could mean for her daughter's future, and he patiently awaited her assent.

Antoinette had worried for the girl – there was no telling how long her past would influence her, haunt her, if she would be able to grown into a full and healthy woman with recent events hanging over her. Both Giry women bore scars on their souls as well as their bodies, and Antoinette worried about what would transpire if Meg never learned to trust, to love again. She feared desperately for her daughter's sake; that is why they were here at the Opera. If this mysterious spirit could secure a future for her little Meg, then she would trust him blindly, put all her faith in him, and do anything he asked.

"Very well, Monsieur le Phantom," she said, standing and smoothing the front of her dress. "I shall deliver your messages, and I shall speak to the managers about securing an extra position as a box attendant as soon as possible. I foresee no difficulty in carrying out your plans, monsieur.

"Neither do I, Madame," Erik had replied cordially.

After a brief hesitation, as she did not know exactly where to refer to the disembodied voice, Mme Giry stepped away from the elaborately upholstered chair and nodded to the empty seat respectfully. She paused briefly as she made her way to the curtained door, and turned back to the chair. Through a crack in the faux marble column, Erik could see the faintest glimmer of candlelight off of tears in her large eyes.

"And thank you, monsieur," she said, her voice nearly cracking with suppressed gratitude. "Thank you very much.

Erik had not replied, and Mme Giry had returned to her small room.

Ever since, Antoinette Giry had been a faithful servant of the Opera Populaire's resident Phantom. In accordance with his promise, Erik had seen to it over the past ten years that little Giry had received promotions and small roles more frequently than the other chorus members her age. He had lost track of her by sight, required only to know the sight of her name in his notes to the managers. Luckily, though, the child had risen gracefully to every new challenge set to her. She became an extraordinary dancer despite her height, and soon no longer needed Erik's input to secure parts and promotions.

She had also learned to open up to the other girls, though her mother still recognized the shield that remained around her innermost heart. The one person that Meg ever truly latched on to was the orphaned daughter of one Charles Daae, Christine, who had come to sing and dance at the Opera after her father's death three years ago.

Erik would always hold some level of gratefulness towards the little Giry girl for her friendship with young Miss Daae. The two girls had drawn each other out of their solitary pits of loneliness. It lightened Erik's aging heart to see two young ones able to be so carefree, even if for a brief time. But far more importantly, it was thanks to little Meg Giry that he had first had the pleasure of being exposed to Christine Daae's pure, angelic voice.

He would never forget the first time his ears had been graced with those lovely strains. The two girls had been playing idly on the stage as the orchestra, conducted by an already aged M Reyer, practiced for a performance of _Faust_, one of the Opera's most frequently performed pieces and one of Erik's favorites. The Phantom had been seated in Box Five at the time, listening critically to the orchestra as the girls giggled distractingly onstage.

After several good-natured reprimands from Monsieur Reyer, the girls ceased their game of tag through the maze of curtains.

"Come, Christine," Meg had said, leading her new friend to the front of the stage by one pale hand.

"No, Meg, we shouldn't…" the smaller girl had protested, attempting to plant her feet but still being pulled forward by her taller companion.

"Oh, nonsense, it will be lovely," Meg said, ignoring her protests.

M Reyer looked up from his musicians but did not stop conducting. "Oui, mes filles?"

"Christine veut chanter avec vous, monsieur," Meg told him, her fourteen years emphasized as she smiled at the thin, reedy old man.

M Reyer smiled, very like a grandfather gazing upon his favorite granddaughter. "If she knows the parts, then she is welcome to sing." He knew fully well that this was likely to be a mistake; after all, the child was a newcomer to the Opera, and had received more training for ballet than singing, but he had taken a fancy to the little Giry girl when she first arrived at the Opera Populaire, and would indulge her now.

Christine glanced at Meg, frightened, as her friend gave her a solid push towards the edge of the stage. Then, tremulously, she picked up the song with the orchestra.

Erik had jumped as her voice joined smoothly and effortlessly with the instruments. Never had he heard such pure music! Surely this child was an unfortunate angel, fallen to this cruel world from the glory of Heaven's choir! Her pitch was perfect, her timing excellent, but there was a fatal flaw in her voice. No, it was worse than fatal, Erik thought as the song continued. It was a damning flaw, which tainted the heavenly purity of the song and twisted it.

She sang with no feeling!

True, she hit the notes. True, she had an astounding range. True, she remembered all the words and entrances. But she was like a doll, a machine designed to sing without human emotion! Such a voice, doomed to such a curse!

It was then that Erik decided to teach her, and under the guise of her Angel of Music, he coaxed such life and passion into her song that he was sure that emperors and angels would weep at the pure beauty of it.

As Erik remembered, he thought he could hear the same angelic voice echoing from so many years ago. Even after three years, the purity of his Angel's voice never failed to send shivers of electricity through his body. It was the pure incarnation of Heaven's music, matched only by her beautiful face and exquisite manner.

Then Erik realized that the beautiful voice was not in his memory. He gave a small jump of surprise as he realized that he had been so lost in memory that he had forgotten the frenzied rehearsals taking place below him. And, joy – his Angel had once again taken her rightful place at the front edge of the stage. Monsieur Reyer, already looking the worse for wear from this morning's events, was running the lovely girl through scales that exhibited the entirety of her magnificent range. Erik smiled. This was _him_, his handiwork, that voice. He had given it life, and tonight would only be the first of many triumphs for him and his beautiful student.

As Erik listened to the exquisite voice echoing around the magnificent auditorium, he was overcome by a sudden wave of sadness and regret, washing over him in the form of a tight, restricting feeling in his chest that made his face fall behind its porcelain mask. Ah, if only he could be more to her than an ethereal instructor, the untouchable Angel of Music, not a man but a voice, a merciless and unfeeling teacher. Ah, so many times, as she had knelt before her dressing room mirror and called out to him, he had longed to show her that it was a real man she addressed, instead of an angel – an ordinary deceitful man, who had used her naïve faith in her father's stories to insert himself into her life. He put one long, skeletal hand to his forehead in shame, meeting the cold, concealing mask.

No, he was not an ordinary man. If he had been an ordinary man, he would not need to hide behind mirrors, rather than standing proudly in front of them as he courted her like an _ordinary_ man would. He was worse – a lying, deceiving monster, an old walking corpse that coveted the fresh, pure beauty of the living. Erik felt wretched at the thought of his perpetual deception to the one girl who captivated him so.

_It is nearly done_, he reminded himself. Tonight, all would change.

Tonight, if all went well, the game would be up, and his shameful deception would be revealed.

A new hope glimmering in his sunken yellow eyes, Erik let a slow smile spread across his malformed lips as he stared down at the beauty on the stage below him. The shame of his attraction retreated to the back of his mind as he filled his eyes and ears with the glory of his Angel.

And perhaps, if Christine could find it in her warm heart to forgive him for what he had done, what he was about to do, he might one day be able to do the same.

**Remember dears, review review! **

**Love, PaigeTurner**


	8. A Few Final Fixes, a Disturbing Dream

**Paige Turner: **

**Hey guys. Here you are. This is the latest I've written. It's not very long or exciting, but it's what came out on the paper. So…..voila. **

**Thanks to everyone who had reviewed. You are so nice! Adrienne -- I have no beta, and I would love to have you do it, if you would be so good. I started typing this story, originally, but I had so little time on the computer that it was really faster to handwrite it at school, and then type it whenever I had the chance. So, I end up typing very fast, and looking at the screen very little, and so I'm bound to make loads of mistakes. If you would email me at be absolutely lovely. **

**Sorry I was kinda slow in getting this last chapter up. I'm in a production of _The Secret Garden_ and my local theatre, and we've only just started performances, so I've been really busy with rehearsals. So, I should have a bit more time now, and I'll try to get things up a bit faster. **

**Chapter 7: A Few Final Fixes, a Glorious Gala**

The ballet chorus had already begun rehearsing the next scene by the time Christine Daae returned to the stage. Every head turned as the young woman passed, resplendent in a stunningly beautiful white dress with voluminous sparkling skirts, shining dangling star earrings, and glittering stars pinned into her bound dark curls. She was so beautiful that Meg hardly recognized her friend, half-sure that this creature before them was an angel of Heaven blessing their humble stage. And from the brief glances she threw about her at her fellow dancers, Meg knew she was not the only one who felt this way.

Meg was pleased to note that Christine still smiled dazzlingly at the chorus girls as she passed. Well, at least her pretty head hadn't inflated so rapidly with her promotion that she had forgotten them already. Still, the newly-appointed diva did not stop to chat, because poor Monsieur Reyer was watching her anxiously from his orchestra podium, and the dear old man looked as though he would collapse if he were not immediately reassured of Christine's abilities. M Reyer had always been a favorite with Christine and Meg, and they with him, so Christine was glad to sing to ease his worries.

As Christine began warming up at the fore of the stage, the ballet girls resumed their rehearsals, though none could ignore the distraction of Christine's pure, piercing notes. However, several cane-taps and admonitions later, the girls returned their focus to the next major ballet number.

In this scene, Hannibal's wife is shown in her home, surrounded by her handmaidens as she manages Hannibal's lands. Madame Giry said it was the job of the handmaidens – the ballet corps – to set the mood of this scene.

The corps ran through the number several times, but it was an easy scene for them. This was not a true ballet number, with only a rather unstructured stage presence required by the chorus. The main effort went into creating the mood of the people or amplifying Elisa's mood. The dancing had to be the embodiment of marital worry, the disorder and confusion of peasants needing the leadership of their chieftain, and suchlike. It was easy enough, under Madame Giry's direction, to perform the standard dances of worry, anguish, loneliness, etc. The only occasional problem was getting ten excitable teenage girls to _feel_ enough of the emotions to show in their movements. However, most of the girls had been dancing since the age of seven or eight, and were well accustomed to dancing emotionally.

After two full runs of the handmaidens' dance, Madame Giry called over the seven girls and four men dancing under la Sorelli, who had been practicing their entrance at stage right. They were to play Hannibal's countrymen, coming to Elisa (now Christine) for guidance. Mme Giry instructed the handmaidens to sit aside for a minute, watch carefully, rest their feet, and be silent. Dutifully, the girls filed wearily downstage, and sat quietly, a mob of loose pink skirts and messy, sweaty hair.

Meg sat at the edge of the group closest to center stage, where she could best hear the orchestra. They were not playing at the moment, and when Meg glanced over she saw Monsieur Reyer standing on a player's bench and leaning against the stage, pointing at his score while Christine knelt next to him, nodding. The slim brunette looked lovely, her white dress pooling around her, and Meg turned away as a pang of jealousy twisted her stomach.

Instead, she watched the other dancers, as instructed. Her eyes focused, as the choreography intended, on the shapely prima ballerina, la Sorelli. Meg assessed the senior dancer, mentally grumbling to herself. As far as talent went, Sorelli was little above average, and Meg thought that any truly dedicated dancer would be able to overthrow her as prima ballerina. For years under Monsieur LeFevre, however, Sorelli had maintained her position through reputation and figure alone. For, despite her age, Sorelli was very shapely, and it was this quality that had secured her more prominent roles. Madame Giry had been most disapproving of this situation, and her daughter and other talented members of the corps grew older and more capable, the solo roles were more frequently distributed among the younger dancers. Sorelli did not complain, though. She acted rather disinterested in the whole business, and seemed comfortable with the concept of living off her reputation, should she be replaced. For several years, she had been the known lover of a wealthy patron, the Comte Philippe de Chagny, whom Meg now realized must be the older brother of the young man they had met that morning.

Meg frowned. If the Vicomte were to be anything like his brother, Meg would need to be careful to protect Christine from his attentions. It was likely that the younger girl would be so enamored with the memory of her childhood companion that she would fail to recognize in time the true nature of Raoul's intentions, honorable or not. It was quite popular among the nobility for gentlemen to take a, if not several, mistress, and singers and dancers were frequent and easy candidates for such a … position. Meg grimaced at the picture her own phrase of thought put into her head. The descriptions painted by Lissette and Marie and the others about such … activities were … well, Meg didn't know quite what to make of them yet.

Luckily, Meg's thoughts were interrupted as a mountain of white silk and pearls flopped gracefully down beside her. Christine, radiant in her costume, smiled prettily at her friend as her dress settled, billowing out at a radius of several feet on all sides.

Meg smiled back. "So, Christine, how is it going?"

Christine nodded thoughtfully. "Pretty well. I was so nervous! It's all happening so fast, and I don't want to disappoint … anyone…" She trailed off, staring blankly at the sway of the curtains and backdrops above them.

The two sat in silence for several minutes, Christine watching the ceiling, Meg watching the dancers. Finally, Meg spoke.

"Christine," she began hesitantly, "who is your tutor?"

Christine remained very still, giving no indication of having heard her. Still, Meg sensed the sudden stiffness in her seat upon the stage floor.

"Well, it's like I told Monsieur Andre," she said after a minute, so quietly that Meg had to lean in to hear her clearly. "I don't know his name."

Meg also remained quite still as she said evenly, "Well, who is it that you do not want to disappoint?"

Christine looked startled, but did not respond.

"Is it the new managers? Maman? _Raoul_?"

Christine gave a start at Raoul's name. "No, no, not them, well, I mean, of course I don't want to disappoint them, it's just…." She trailed off, realizing she was babbling guiltily. "I… don't want to let the audience down, after they paid for tickets, and expected to hear la Carlotta." Christine gave a half-hearted laugh as she said this, at the obvious absurdity of anyone being disappointed by _not_ hearing la Carlotta's strident tones. Her friend did not laugh.

Meg stared at her until Christine met her eyes. She let her hurt show in her eyes, a sisterly longing to help a friend.

"Please, Christine," she said, barely above a whisper. "I won't tell, I promise. Who is your teacher?" It was as if the two were young again, sharing the secret of wandering after-hours or filching a midnight snack from the maids' kitchens.

Perhaps inspired by Meg's younger tone, Christine's eyes slowly began to sparkly and she leaned in conspiratorially. She looked just like a child about to reveal what she thinks is a wonderful secret.

"Meg," she began, her voice low and excited, "do you remember what my father promised me, before he died?"

Meg did. She remembered when Christine arrived at the Opera Garnier, barely fourteen years of age but seeming so much younger. The poor distraught child had spent hours in the small private chapel in one of the back corridors. This room never held a service, but was frequently used for the holding of memorial candles, where lonely mourners could keep solitary vigils over the spirits of their departed. Meg had not sat with her often, as the two had not yet grown close, and she felt the sad new girl deserved some privacy in which to mourn her father's passing.

Meg saw the young girl's plight and immediately jumped into the role of elder sister. One day, Meg invited Christine to sing along with the orchestra during their rehearsal, and she herself had occasionally done when much younger. After a surprisingly stunning performance, the young girl had shocked Meg by fleeing the stage in tears. When Meg had found her later that day, once again sobbing quietly in a corner of the Opera's small chapel, Christine had admitted to a comforting Meg that she had come to the Opera Populaire for two reasons. One reason was to continue to feed her lifelong love of music, inspired by her father, by training in the Opera's conservatoire. It had been her father's wish, she told Meg, that she never lose her desire for the beauty of music.

"And the Opera Garnier is renowned for its great teachers and music," she had added with a smile, and Meg had glowed at the compliment to her mother.

"But why else?" Meg had asked curiously. She couldn't think why anyone would choose to come to l'Opera if not for the music, or instruction, or magnificent architecture. The place was a thing of beauty, but somehow Meg doubted that such a pretty young girl would travel all the way from her native Sweden simply to live in a pretty building.

It then had occurred to Meg that people sometimes had other motives for moving to the Opera Populaire… and she suddenly looked at Christine in a worried light. Surely this sweet child had not come to live here for the same reason as Meg and her mother had done!

But Meg's fears had soon been alleviated as Christine had leaned close and confided,

"Meg, when I was little, my father used to tell me stories every night. My favorite were about a little girl named Lotte, who was visited by the Angel of Music, just like the Holy Virgin was visited by the Angel Gabriel. Papa said that all true musicians, if they are pure of heart and talented and tried enough, are visited by the Angel of Music." She faltered, and Meg sat quietly by her as she swallowed and blinked rapidly. "When Papa's cough became worse, he promised me something. He promised me that when he was in Heaven, he would send the Angel of Music for me. I have waited since Papa's death to hear the Angel, but I never do." Tears were welling up in Christine's enormous lovely eyes now. "I thought that surely here, at this wonderful, _beautiful_ place, _surely_ the Angel could come to me. And here I would be able to use His instruction for the best! B…But, He doesn't speak, and I'm losing faith! Oh….oh Papa….you promised…." She trailed off, and Meg drew the slim girl's shaking frame into a sisterly embrace.

Meg had been startled by her new friend's words. That was what was missing in Christine's voice. She expected a divine messenger from her late father to appear to her, to guide her and give her strength in her time of sorrow. Irrationally Meg had felt a stab of anger towards the late M Daae. He had built a castle of dreams and fairy-tales for the poor child, and now, at the age of fourteen, Christine Daae was just that – a lost child without a father. Meg had held her tight and wondered how Christine could trust so completely in her father's Angel, _believe_ that her papa would send him if she came to this glorious house of music. Meg did not know if she had even been innocent enough to believe such a fairy tale. But Meg realized that her childhood had been very different from young Mlle Daae's, and therefore forgave her childish naïveté. _It was not, after all_, she decided, _entirely her fault. _

Thinking back on that conversation, Meg was surprised that Christine had brought it up. They had not spoken of Christine's Angel of Music since that day, and Meg had assumed that Christine's naïve hopes had been gently shattered. The younger girl had been happier after that revealing episode, and Meg had thought that this was simply the standard reaction to getting an uncomfortable memory off of one's chest.

"Well, Christine said, leaning even closer, "Do you also remember when I told you, after you had first had me sing onstage?"

Meg nodded again.

"After I told you I was losing hope of the Angel of Music, I went back to the dormitory early, upset. I cried for my lost hope, and then I heard the most beautiful voice! It was the most heavenly man's voice you've ever heard, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. He said he was the Angel of Music, and that he would save me, forgive me for my faltering faith. And he began to teach me, in secret, in the small chapel, until I was given my own dressing room two years ago. Now the Voice teaches me from behind my mirror." Her face was rapturous, and she positively glowed.

Meg did not smile. Her icy-blue eyes were focused intently on her friend's face, absorbing the conversation.

Christine noticed the intensity of her friend's gaze, and was suddenly reminded of the importance of her subject. Her face paled as she looked nervously up at the ceiling once more. She began speaking very low and fast.

"Oh, but maybe I shouldn't have told you," she fretted. "Maybe He will be angry that I told. Maybe He will think that I have betrayed him! I wasn't supposed to tell anyone, not even you! Maybe—"

Meg cut her off with a laugh and a raised hand.

"It's alright, Christine," she said calmingly. "I'm sure he knows you've tried. After all, you kept your true talent from us all for three years, and even I never knew about your lessons. Sure, it makes me feel like a rotten friend, but you've done well." All this was said in a low voice, meant for Christine's ears only. "Besides," she added, "he doesn't have to know. You don't have to tell him."

"Oh, Meg," Christine cried softly, still worried. "I don't have to tell him! He know everything that happens in his Opera—"

Meg shushed her with a wave.

"Don't think about it. He won't know. You should concentrate on your upcoming triumph, mon amie."

With that, Meg firmly ended the conversation.

Soon after, Mme Giry called the handmaidens and Elisa to center stage, and the two groups practiced the same scene again. Afterwards, the girls with singing roles in the final number ran it again in Christine's presence, to accustom themselves to accompanying the younger soprano's voice.

The corps practiced through the normal lunch hour, and would have continued on into the afternoon had not Messieurs Andre and Firmin stopped by the stage to check on rehearsals and noticed the way the girls were beginning to droop in exhaustion. Meg knew that her mother had the tendency to become very nervous before an opening night, and would work her students with no thought to their physical discomfort until her superior forced her to stop or she deemed them ready. Always in the past, M LeFevre had been there to remind Mme Giry to give the girls a break for food, but the new managers did not know to do that. After an exchange of surprised expressions and a few quiet words with Mme Giry, the chorus were allowed to returned to their rooms for a rest, or to take a late meal, with the instructions to meet backstage at four o'clock for one last rehearsal.

Meg was spent. She spoke to no one on her way back to the dressing room corridors, eyes drooping and feet throbbing. She desperately wanted to think about Christine's mysterious Angel, but she could not get her mind to focus.

Clumsily, she unlocked her door, waving half-heartedly to Christine as she headed to her own door. She shut the door behind her, locked it, left the key in the lock, and fell heavily into her small bed. She burrowed into the pillows and her new blankets like a small nesting animal, sighing happily. She was so tired…

Still, as she drifted off, two phrases echoed through her tired mind, winding their way through the music and dance steps that packed the inner corridors of her thoughts.

The first was in Christine's voice, saying worriedly, "He knows everything that happens in _his_ Opera…"

The second echoed in a deep frightening man's voice, the same that had echoed down the dressing room corridor after her last night. The phrase was the opening of a letter, written in crimson ink that shone disturbingly like blood. "Your sheets were a disgrace to _my_ Opera…."

However, she was so thoroughly exhausted that she fell asleep immediately after that thought, leaving no time for perusal.

Fell like the mysteriously loosened backdrop had tumbled down upon the unsuspecting Carlotta that morning…

_She watched the curtain falling, the black shape indistinguishable in the shadows. She strained to catch sight of it, but Joseph Buquet passed before her searching eyes, leering down, and she turned away. _

_The backdrop had disappeared, Carlotta with it. There was panic ensuing downstage, as the new managers scurried around, asking every chorus girl if she could sing the lead. Every one shook her head and milled past, the managers and island of frantic movement in a sea of dazed performers._

_Meg slowly approached the pair. M Andre turned to her, his face reddening with nervousness._

"_Please, Mademoiselle," he said pleadingly. "Can _you_ sing the lead tonight?"_

"_Of course I can, monsieur," Meg said calmly, placing a hand comfortingly on the shorter man's shoulders. _

_Both men visibly relaxed. The noise on the stage grew louder briefly, then became very quiet. _

"_Well then, mademoiselle," M Firmin said, pleased, "you must sing." And then he gestured to the full auditorium before them. "The audience is waiting, and the show must go on."_

_Meg's eyes grew wide. She was not ready! Her clothes…but she was wearing Elisa's white dress, the fountain of lace and diamonds that Christine would wear for "Think of Me." She put a hand to her messy blonde hair, and felt it sleek and shining and pinned up with elaborate diamond stars. She was stunningly beautiful! _

_She looked out at the audience and swallowed. She felt her face flush with fear. Then she rushed offstage, every eye focused upon her. She noticed that the stage was set for Elisa's solo, peaceful, with plants lining the sides and a dark blue backdrop of a star-filled night sky hanging at the back. _

_Meg was frightened. Nerves overcame her, fear knotting her stomach. She saw her mother in the right wings and ran over to her. _

"_Maman…I can't…"_

_Madame Giry's face was both compassionate and hard. She did not let Meg complain, but rather pushed something hard and cold into Meg's clasped hands, turned her firmly by the shoulders, and pushed her away from the security of the curtain. _

_Meg stumbled back onto the stage, her large blue eyes wide as they met so many others. She was afraid. What if they recognized her? What if she messed up? What if _he_ noticed her?_

_Mind numb, Meg looked from the silent audience to the cold, hard object in her hands. It was a plain, full-face mask of molded whit porcelain, identical to the one she had seen the night before. _

Hide your face, Meg. Hide behind the mask, and he will never find you. No one will know you, put it on. _The immobile porcelain lips seemed to whisper in her ear._

_With a sudden decision, Meg raised the mask to her face. It molded itself perfectly to her features, and only her large, deep blue eyes were visible now. A surge of confidence washed over Meg, and she stepped forward and began to sing._

_She sang as she had never done before, the mask seeming to amplify her rather than muffle her. Her pitch and timing were perfect, the notes of an invisible orchestra accompanying her flawlessly. She reached notes she could only squeak out before, and her voice filled the auditorium with beauty. She had never been so happy in all her life. _

"_Will someone shut that girl up?"_

_Suddenly a roar and pounding footsteps could be heard offstage, coming closer. Meg faltered, but continued her song._

"_Be silent! Silent!" came the shout again, followed by a smashing sound, as though someone had thrown a glass or a bottle against the floor in anger. _

_Meg's hand flew to her face, to reassure herself of the presence of the cold, concealing mask. Top her horror, it dissolved under her touch, and she heard mocking laughter as it vanished. _

_Meg gasped and whirled towards stage right, where the footsteps were growing louder and louder. Somehow, she continued singing, knowing that for the sake of the Opera House she must try to continue. _

"_I said be _silent_, you stupid little girl!"_

_Meg heard the sound of a blow, of flesh striking flesh and of crunching bone, and Madame Giry fell out of the shadows, landing face down and immobile on the stage floor. Behind her, and enormous shape loomed dark in the shadows._

_Her father._

_Meg turned and tried to run, but her lovely dress was suddenly too large for her. She tripped and fell heavily, landing sprawled on the stage and tangled in the folds of the dress. Footsteps boomed on the stage as her father crossed toward her. _

_She fought to free herself from the dress, flailing in the manner of the child she was. Her movements became more and more frantic as her father approached. She was drowning in a sea of sparkling lace…_

_Then she was free, and she scrambled away, a thin child of six or seven with messy, tangled hair; large, frightened eyes; and dressed in a torn nightshift. She tried to run, but a large hand fastened firmly around her upper arm, enveloping it, snatching at her roughly and throwing her to the floor. _

"_Get up, you disobedient little wench," boomed her father. Meg did not move, save for how her thin little body trembled with fear. _

_She was seized roughly by the hair and hauled upright, and then a palm larger than her face connected solidly with her right cheek._

_Meg's ears began ringing loudly, drowning out the insults her father slurred out as he struck her again and again. His face blurred through her tears, and she felt her consciousness slipping……_

Meg woke with a stat and a scream, lying twisted in her sheets and atop a tear-soaked pillow.


	9. Bathtime Bemusings

Paige Turner: Hello again. End of the school year brings good writing times and bad writing times. I wasn't able to write at all while completing two really long projects for my English class, but I was able to use the time that everyone else in my classes were reviewing for finals to write and draw. So, here you have it, the first part of chapter 8.

**I'm sorry the story seems to be going really slowly – I just start writing, and more stuff ends up on paper than I had originally intended. So…. bear with me, I'm trying to move as quickly as I can, and I hope the story still makes sense and all.**

**But I'm rambling. **

**And, on a side note, I looked for probably an hour straight on the internet, trying to find if the Opera Garnier had indoor plumbing in 1870. Needless to say, I was unsuccessful, so you get a rather fuzzy account of water pumps and heating cauldrons. If you know the real plumbing situation of the time, I would love it if you told me. Though for the sake of time and effort, I probably won't go back and change anything. Just so I'd know, you see. **

**Anyway, here you have it. Enjoy, and don't forget to review! **

**­­­­­­­­­­­­**

**Chapter 8**

**A Glorious Gala**

It was several seconds before Meg realized vaguely where she was. Slowly, she remembered that her body was sore from a morning of dancing, that she had not seen her father in nearly ten years, that she was _safe_. Still, she reached needily for a pillow and curled around it, hugging the worn material desperately with her whole body. She was exhausted and stressed, and she did not bother trying to stop her tears.

Seconds after her awakening, Meg heard the scuffle of feet in the corridor, inches away on the other side of the wall. Then came the rushed rattle of a key in her lock, then the handle turned and the door burst open, and a very mussed-looking Christine rushed to Meg's bedside.

"Meg, Meg!" she cried, hurrying over and falling to her knees beside her friend's nightstand. "Wake up, Meg, come on, wake up." Her voice, though quick, was low and soothing.

Meg's sobs quieted as Christine put a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. Still half-trapped in the memory, at first Meg jumped and flinched at the touch, but as her hand contacted Christine's smaller one, she relaxed and opened her eyes.

Slowly, Meg sat up, bracing herself against the mattress with both arms. Christine rocked back on her heels, watching Meg warily. Meg looked around the room as though assuring herself that she was really there. Her eyes were wide and dark, still half-muddled with sleep.

Then she shook herself visibly, and when she looked back at Christine her eyes were once again relaxed, clear, and sharp.

"I'm sorry," Meg said softly. "You should be resting for tonight. I didn't mean to wake you."

Christine smiled weakly, still concerned. "It's quite alright. I wasn't asleep yet anyway."

Meg was surprised. "What time is it?" she asked. There was a large wall clock at the end of the corridor, and she thought that Christine might have glimpsed it as she hurried in.

She had. "Only a little after one-thirty," she said apologetically.

Meg swore mentally. She still had two hours' worth of rest available, but she was far too frightened to fall asleep. In her exhausted state, she did not know what other painful memories her dreams would dredge forth.

Christine saw her friend's discomfort and held back a pitying sigh. Meg was so strong when she was awake, it was a shame that her one weakness came when she had no control over her actions. For as long as Christine could remember, Meg had been plagued by nightmares. Though the frequency of such terrors had decreased, Christine still occasionally found herself woken in the dead of night by sobs or a piercing scream from the next room. She would always rush over to pull the unfortunate girl out of her dream, and sit with Meg until she was calm enough to sleep again. But Christinedidn't mind. Meg had helped her so much by being a friend over the past few years, that Christine was glad to be able to repay her in some small way.

"Do you want me to sit with you?" Christine asked kindly.

Meg shook her head. "No, it's quite alright. It wasn't too bad; I'll just read for a while and I'll be fine. You go and get your rest – you have a big night tonight."

The brunette nodded. She would not stay if she was not wanted – it would offend Meg's sensitive pride to insist that she needed company.

Besides, she had another reason to want to return to her own room….

"What was that all about?" boomed the Voice as Christine softly shut the dressing room door behind her. The Voice was deep and menacing, threatening anger if Christine did not immediately supply a suitable explanation for her hasty departure.

Trembling, Christine hurried to her full-length mirror and knelt before it. "I –I'm sorry, Angel," she stammered. She could not risk His anger – not on a night like this. "It was my friend, Meg Giry. She had a nightmare. I always wake her up when that happens—"

"Always?" the Voice interrupted, the heavenly tones slicing smoothly through her babble. That simple question _demanded_ an answer.

"Y-Yes," Christine muttered, surprise at her Angel's momentary lack of knowledge warring with guilt at betraying Meg's secret. "Ever since I've known her, Meg has been plagued by nightmares. She never speaks of them, so I cannot be sure, but I hear her muttering in her sleep – she cries out in pain, and always wakes up sobbing or screaming. I think she is remembering her life before she moved here, but maybe an overactive imagination is all that bothers her. She is such a strong girl, to have such a curse." Christine fell silent, staring at her small white hands clasped neatly in her lap.

Then came the Voice, caressing her ears lovingly, as warm and comforting as a warm blanket and a seat by a fireside after walking through a cold winter night.

"You have done well, my dear child," the Voice told her. She thought her heart would burst, it swelled so with the praise! "You have a kind and compassionate heart." Oh joy, that he should compliment her twice!

"Now, child, you must rest. Climb into bed, and I shall sing you a lullaby."

Christine obeyed immediately, eager to hear his glorious voice lifted in a beautiful song meant only for her ears.

"But, Angel, it is not yet two o'clock. I did not practice as the other girls did; I –"

"_Do not question me, child_." The Voice was an immovable rod of iron that barred any protests.

Obediently, Christine climbed into bed, drawing only the thinner of her two blankets over herself. For all it was early winter, it was warm in the Opera House after a morning of so many bodies rushing about and rehearsing.

"Now, close your eyes,"

This was spoken is so soft and ordinary a voice that, for a moment, Christine could believe that it was spoken by a real man bending over her – her father, perhaps – rather than her powerful Guardian Angel of Music. Still, she obeyed.

Even if she had not chosen to close her eyes, she would have found them shut regardless in the next few moments. The Voice began a soft, sweet lullaby, one that Christine had heard many times as a child but had nearly forgotten. The song called her into a dreamland of soft pillows and billowy clouds, of Angels and music.

After less than a minute of the beautiful, wordless song, Christine was fast asleep.

Ending his song with a subtle diminuendo, Erik stood silently with one gloved hand resting lightly on the glass of the mirror. So easily did his Angel succumb to the power of his voice, his one beauty. Would she be so willing once she saw his face, saw who – no, _what_ he really was? Maybe this was a bad idea, after all…

_No_, Erik told himself firmly as he turned form the mirror with a _swish_ of is long black cape. _This is no time for regrets_. He began to head down the secret corridor, back to his home in the cellars. For some reason, he did not want to watch his Angel as she slept just now, hypnotized by the beauty of his voice. It was giving him a very peculiar sensation in his gut, what he believed the performers called "butterflies in the stomach" – nerves. The Phantom of the Opera did _not_ get nervous, Erik told himself. It wasn't right. And that was why he left.

Not normally being one to peep into the girls' dressing rooms, Erik surprised himself by stopping at the next mirror, that of little Meg Giry. He watched with detached interest as she rose shakily from bed, still in her practice clothes, and crossed to a tall shelving unit between her nightstand and the mirror. He watched as she selected a large green book with simply the word "Mythology" embossed on the spine without seeming to look at it, turned, and nearly dove headfirst back into her bed. As it was, she landed with a rather heavy _flump_, and Erik was sure she must have hurt her head with the impact. But she merely rolled over, flipped the matted blonde locks over her shoulder with one hand, opened the book to an apparently random page, and began reading. Every now and then, her eyes would unfocus, showing a lapse in her concentration. She appeared highly distracted, but was obviously doing her best to occupy her mind with legends of peoples long gone.

What was it that so haunted this girl in the darkness? Erik wondered if her nightmares had been the initial cause of her midnight stroll the night before. And why did this girl come so suddenly into his life, just when he was the most stressed and worried, when everything else was requiring his full attention, with so many plans being set into action? She was turning into and interesting little enigma, and remembering their past history of association, he was mildly interested in learning about her. After all, she was a permanent resident of his Opera, and everything that occurred in his Opera was his business.

However, he had no time to worry about the girl now, and decided it would be best to ignore her. If necessary, he might have to discover the subject of her nighttime fears. He would bring them to life in front of her if it was necessary to remove her from his business. Erik would suffer no pangs of conscience about torturing her so – after all, he had driven his own mother mad with is voice and imagination. Why should he feel bad about doing the same to a mere ballet rat?

Unfortunately, it never occurred to him that perhaps Meg would not allow herself to be ignored.

With a shudder, Meg let the thick book fall from limp fingers, where the pages crumpled and folded against the floor. She immediately set the tome right, trying to block the surprisingly vivid image of poor King Oedipus blinding himself with some of his wife/mother's pins. She shook herself again, trying to rid herself of the painful image.

Was there to be no peace for her? she wondered as she reluctantly climbed out of bed and headed to her washbasin. Last night, this morning, her dream – she had more excitement in the last twelve hours than she'd had in the last several months. Even reading brought her no escape or peace of mind.

Meg decided to take a bath. She thought that all the other girls would be asleep yet, and wanted to clean up for the performance while there was no line for the baths.

Quickly, Meg gathered a change of clothes – chemise, corset, stockings, slippers, and dress. She also brought a washrag, a small bottle of bath oil, and some soap. She slipped silently out of her door, shut it softly behind her, and then padded quietly through the maze of backstage corridors.

She soon came upon a door marked "Salle de Bains." She knocked quietly, remembering one time when she was thirteen and she had forgotten to knock. She had walked in on an elder ballerina and a stable boy in one of the bathtubs, making quite a mess and racket. Ever since, Meg had never once forgotten to knock before entering the bathroom.

Receiving no response, Meg slowly opened the door and peered inside. Good, the room was empty. A large pump stood in the center of the room, with a large iron kettle on a stand over it. Another kettle lay to one side of a large dark fire grate, over which stood another iron hanging frame. A row of fine bathtubs extended the length of the large room, and on the far wall were propped a number of tall dressing screens which were rarely used, and a number of small benches.

Meg selected the tub nearest the pump and set her wash things on its rim. She carried one of the wooden benches from the side of the room and set it beside her chosen bathtub, and set her clothes on it. In the event that she spilled some water, her clothes would remain dry.

Next, Meg lit a fire in the pit, using tinder and a lighter already near. Then she pumped a kettleful of water and hung it over the growing, hungry flames.

While this heated, Meg pumped another large amount of water. Then she retrieved a towel from the cabinets at the back of the room and placed it beside her clothes. Then she set a dressing screen around the tub, which would shield her in the case of any unexpected visitors. Most of the girls were comfortable with bathing in front of each other, most of them having grown up together, but Meg found it exceedingly awkward to be walked in upon by only a single girl, almost as awkward as walking in on someone else.

With some difficulty, Meg carried the now steaming cauldron of water to her bathtub and poured it in, careful not to slosh it over the high sides. She set the empty kettle to one side and set its fellow to heat. While it heated, she rearranged her bath things, and added bath oil to the warm water. Darn. That was the last of her oil, and it was her favorite. She rinsed the bottle out in the bathwater to get the last of the oil out, smiling and inhaling deeply as a sharp citrus scent filled the air. Shame. That bottle had been a birthday gift from her mother, and she couldn't hope for another until Christmas, which was still several weeks away.

After carefully adding the second batch of water, Meg peeled off her sweaty leotard, skirt, flounce, and underthings, and climbed gratefully into the warm water. The tub was a bit small for her long limbs, but that was why she had used a double amount of water. She had no idea that the soap-skimmed water was protecting her modesty from the prying eyes of the stagehand Joseph Buquet, who was at that moment standing on a footstool and peering greedily through an air vent in the next room.

Meg sighed happily as the warm water soaked into her tired limbs and allowed herself to relax. She imagined all of the pain and bad memories lifting out of her body like a stain being washed out of clothes, leaving her clean and peaceful. She sat there motionless for several minutes, and then decided that she should get washed and out before the other girls came in to clean before the performance. She also decided to use the time constructively, and turn her mind to more pressing matters.

Lathering her hair quickly with soap, Meg took a deep breath and sunk under the water. Her blonde locks turned dark in the water and waved loose and weightless like Medusa's snakes. With the water pressing in on her ears, she could hear no sound except for her slow heartbeat – a base drum's beat pounding out a rhythm to her thoughts.

_Now, to the matter of this Angel_, Meg thought in her most brisk, businesslike manner. She knew she had made some connection just before falling asleep, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember.

She tried to recall what Christine had told her. A mysterious man "angel" had heard her sing three years ago and had since been giving her voice lessons from behind her dressing room's mirror. In addition, during these three years, Christine had shown very few signs of improvement, and Meg herself had never learned of these private lessons.

It all seemed very odd. Yesterday, Meg would have doubted that Christine could hide something like that, for so long, from a girl who was as close as a sister to her.

_Have there been signs all along that I've just not noticed?_ Meg wondered, briefly coming up for air.

But one thought still stuck firmly in Meg's mind. She couldn't help having the strangest instinct that this sudden revelation of Christine's Angel and her recent incidents involving their resident Ghost were closely connected. If only there was a way she could be sure!

_Wait a minute. Maybe there is…._

Meg hurried to finish her bath and dressed at top speed. She drained her bathwater and set the screen and stool back where they belonged, then gathered her things and hurried from the room.

She stopped by her dressing room to drop off her bath things, then hurried through the maze of corridors into the section of the Populaire where the higher-paid staff members like her mother had their rooms. She found the appropriate door and rapped three times sharply, in accordance with the small sign on the doorknob reading "Please Knock Before Entering."

Meg bounced up and down impatiently on the balls of her feet as she waited for the room's occupant to open the door. At last, it creaked slowly open, and Meg leaned forward eagerly.

"Tell me everything you know about the Phantom of the Opera."

Well, this is only half of what I've written for chapter Eight, but I think it's long enough for its own post. I'll get the rest up as soon as I can type it in; hopefully that'll be some time later today. But I make no guarantees.

**Lovelove, **

**Paige Turner**


	10. A Glorious Gala

**Paige Turner: Wow, lookat me. Ten chapters. **

**Told you I'd get it up quickly. You didn't think I could do it, did you? **

**Behold. **

…

Monsieur Charles Reyer was surprised to find little Meg Giry behind his door, looking fresh and clean from a bath and with an expectant gleam in her eye. He would have expected her to be deeply asleep by now. He was even more surprised to hear her curt demand.

"What?" he asked, wondering why such a sensible girl would ask about their resident myth.

"The Phantom of the Opera," Meg repeated. "You've lived here long enough to have gathered plenty of stories about hi m, and surely you have your own opinion." Meg sidled through the open door and took a seat on a vacant footstool. She looked up at him with bright, pleading eyes – the ones that had captured his heart so many years ago. "Please, Monsieur Reyer. Tell me."

Charles Reyer smiled at the obviously pitiful note the sly little girl had put into here voice. She knew she could manipulate his old heart, but he didn't mind. Ever since little Meg and her strong mother had come to the Opera, he had adopted the ­­willful pair. Meg was like a favorite granddaughter to him, and he was happy to make her happy.

He made his slow, aged way over to his large cushioned armchair and lowered himself into it. He was wearing a comfortable smoking jacket over loose black cotton trousers, ending in small slippers over his cold old feet. His balding, impossibly round forehead glinted in the dim lamplight, and sharp green eyes peered intently at Meg out of that kindly wrinkled face from behind small bejeweled round reading spectacles.

Finally, he spoke.

"Well, ma cherie, I'm sure you've heard many of the same stories as I have. The Phantom is said to be the specter who haunts the Opera House. Anything that goes wrong is blamed on him – candles going out, mirrors breaking, backdrops falling…" He trailed off and Meg blushed. That's exactly what she had done that morning. Reyer let the silence hang, then continued.

"Rumors abound as to the Phantom's physical appearance. I have heard everything from the one where he has a head of fire (That poor lost fireman in the cellars last year…) to the one where he has a death's head – a terrifying skull. It is generally agreed that he wears a mask to cover up whatever face he may have."

With horrifying clarity, Meg recalled the way that motionless white visage had transformed into that _terrifying skull_ the night before.

_Could it be…?_

If M Reyer noticed Meg's sudden intake of breath, he continued as though he had not.

"It is said that the Phantom resides in the bowels of the Opera, though he had been sighted even in the uppermost levels. There are many stories of who the Ghost once was – a musician killed for his love of a dancer, one of the original workmen killed during construction, a soldier hiding here during the war, and so on. No one really talks about this. Your silly little comrades much prefer to dream up the fantastical exploits of this Ghost, and care not where he came from. In any case, the story of the Phantom has haunted this building since its construction, and I suspect that it always will."

He fell silent.

After a minute in thought, Meg asked, "I take it, then, sir, that you do not believe there is a Ghost?"

M. Reyer smiled indulgently. "No, my dear, I do not. I do not believe in ghosts. _Neither did I, _Meg thought. "I believe that twenty thousand francs disappear each month in the name of this specter, and yet still the random, sourceless _accidents_ continue." _Twenty thousand francs a month?_ "Unexplainable accidents _can_ be simply that, and I do not understand the reason to read more into their causes, and certainly not the reason to throw money at the situation."

The pair was silent again.

"On that note, child – why do you ask?"

Meg immediately dismissed the notion of telling M Reyer the true answer to that question before she had more information. Without missing a beat, she rose and walked to a small teapot heating on a tiny wood stove, chose a cup and saucer, and began fixing the old man a cup of tea.

"Oh, Christine and I were having an arg…a discussion. I shouldn't have disturbed you so urgently when you should be resting…" she said simply, by way of apology.

"Ah," M Reyer said, gratefully accepting the tea. "Quite an interesting development with our little Miss Daae, there, isn't it?"

"Yes," Meg said quietly, reseating herself on the footstool.

More silence.

"Quite frankly, my dear, I'm astonished," M Reyer said suddenly, setting his cup back down on its saucer with such force that it _clink_ed dangerously. "How on earth did Christine learn to sing so well? When? From whom?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't know, monsieur. She says…" she hesitated, "that her Angel of Music has been giving her lessons for the past three years."

"Her Angel of Music?" M Reyer's high voice was skeptical.

"Oui. That's what she said."

M Reyer was baffled by this, but did not press the subject. It was obvious that her lack of knowledge upset Meg, and he doubted she would be able to tell him anything of use. He allowed her to change the subject.

"So, do you think the orchestra is ready for this performance?" Meg inquired casually.

Reyer sighed. "Ah, I suppose. The trombones are still having trouble with the fast part in your dance at the beginning of Act Two, and I can't get out bassoons to stay in pitch for anything – it's the second chair, he has _ab_solutely no ear…"

The conversation turned to talk of the upcoming opera, the conductor and dancer giving their different perspectives on the performance. The pair chatted away amiably for the next hour, Meg occasionally rising to refresh M Reyer's tea.

The pleasant calm was abruptly shattered when a sharp rapping on the door cut through the quiet.

"Monsieur Reyer, is my daughter in there?"

It was Madame Giry, and she did not sound happy.

"Why yes she is, Antoinette," M Reyer called cheerfully back, despite the way his heart rate had accelerated at the sudden interruption.

"Meg!"

"Oui?"

"Have you been watching the time?"

"Yes," Meg lied indignantly. M Reyer turned his head over the high back of the chair to a small wall clock, and silently muttered the time to her. "It's three-fifteen."

Smiling slightly, M Reyer called, "Why don't you come in, Antoinette dear?"

The door opened to reveal a very irritable Madame Giry, already dressed in the fine old black taffeta gown that she wore whenever she worked as Box Attendant on the Grand Tier. Her hair was pulled up into a large bun at the top of her neck, and it was held in place by the thinnest net of pearl strings. Her glasses hung from their jeweled chain, bouncing off of her chest as she took a heavy step into the room.

"I have been looking everywhere for you!" she snapped.

"That's not my fault," Meg muttered darkly under her breath. M Reyer gave her a lightly reproving look, but said nothing.

"Go and get costumed, check your props –"

"Je sais, Maman."

"And be ready on the stage in forty-five minutes."

"Oui, Maman."

Meg rose stiffly and swept past her mother, rustling skirts masking the angry stomp of her small slippered feet. Madame Giry nodded an apology to M Reyer and bustled after her daughter, her high black boots clicking sharply against the wooden floor on the edge of the corridor.

"What have you been doing?" Mme Giry demanded.

"Rien. Nous avons parle."

"About what?"

_What does it matter?_ Meg wanted to whirl and scream at her, but that was just the irritation at being interrupted talking.

"About the Opera," she said as calmly as she could muster. "About Christine. About the Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Music." Each was said in a cool, offhand voice, but Mme Giry stiffened at the third item.

Meg barely saw her mother's hand in time to turn her body, so that a stinging slap did not connect with her arm.

"What!" She asked, indignant and bewildered.

"You must not ask such questions," Mme Giry hissed dangerously.

_What the…_"Whyever not?"

Mme Giry raised her hand to slap at her again, but decided against it. "You mustn't! This is very important, Meg!"

"D'accord, d'accord!"

Meg was baffled as Mme Giry turned and strode briskly away. What on earth was that about? Meg hadn't seen her mother that…that _afraid_ in years. Meg knew that it was fear that made her mother act that way – fear for her daughter. She only used to act that way when Meg risked angering her father, or when Mme Giry feared Meg would upset the managers and lose them their places at the Opera Populaire. But what had she to fear now?

Still confused, Meg made her solitary way after her mother, retrieving her opening costume from the dressing hall and moving it to her room. The rest she left by her mirror, for she would not have time to return all the way to her room between scenes.

Meanwhile, Antoinette Giry closed the door of her room behind her softly and leaned weakly on the frame. "Forgive me, Monsieur," she whispered softly. "She will not pry again. She is young. She does not know…."

There was no response save for a whispering breeze that circled the room, tugging at her dress and hair and extinguishing her lamp.

In the darkness, Antoinette Giry shivered.

…………

After getting dressed and reminding the other girls to do the same, Meg strolled alone to the practice _barre_s in the stage wings. The nicer practice areas were upstairs, and technically the _barre_s they had used that morning were intended only for last-minute stretches before ballet numbers, but Meg didn't want to risk losing track of the time and being late for their run-through. She practiced alone, becoming quite lonely and uncomfortable in the silence. It had been years since Meg had warmed up for a performance without Christine chatting away companionably by her side. Now the only sounds came from the singers and dancers doing last-minute prop checks, the creak of backdrops overhead, and the occasional slam of a trapdoor that would have made a less experienced Opera dweller jump.

Over the next half hour, the other female members of the ballet chorus gathered around Meg, causally stretching or talking. Most of the principal singers had gathered near the fore of the stage, Christine among them, and the men's chorus was nowhere to be seen. Meg thought bitterly that they were probably sharing a few final drinks with the scene-changers. Most of the men dancers frequently took to drinking because of the low social status and ridicule that they often endured because of their profession. If dancing was considered lowly and disreputable for women, it was looked down on ever more so for men, and it was only the strongest of loves for the dance that kept the men at their relatively thankless occupation. That was why the men's parts were so often played by women – there were sometimes just not enough men willing to endure the ridicule to fill the roles. Drink was the most convenient method of ignoring the ridicule of the higher classes, and consequently the men's chorus could always be found in a raucous party upstairs after each performance. They refused even to go out to a bar, because even the drunkards would mock them, and it was less of a hassle to pass out already in the building where you had to be the next morning. The only men who did not participate in the party were those lucky enough to be approached by a woman (of any station from maid to bored noblewoman) who had been impressed by their limber movements and strong limbs.

At four o'clock exactly, Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer arrived and took their places stage left and in the orchestra pit respectively. Following them, striding imperiously and leaving a respectful silence in his wake, came Monsieur Jean-Pierre DuGaulle.

Monsieur DuGaulle was an odd choice for director of the world-renowned Opera Populaire. While he did possess the vision and imagination necessary to coordinate their large scale performances, Meg thought he left rather too much of the actual direction to Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer. True, Madame Giry could coordinate the movement and M Reyer the sound, once DuGaulle outlined his ideas to them and the script was purchased. But it was so difficult to organize everything without an assistant ballet chorus manager and a secondary voice instructor, neither of which was allotted for in the Opera's budget from their patrons. Luckily, most of the musicians were talented enough that Reyer was not required to spend much time instructing them, so he could serve as voice instructor for the chorus. Most of the principals had private tutors, or needed none.

In short, Meg thought that DuGaulle was more interested in the fame his title brought him than living up to the respect it entailed. He was simply not active enough in the Opera's affairs, especially not with the dwindling funds allowing for no extra help. Hopefully the arrival of the Vicomte de Chagny as patron would allow for staff additions.

Monsieur DuGaulle stood imperiously at center stage, looking impatient as always at having to actually deal with the performers. "Well?" he asked, his baritone voice ringing with disdain. "Let's see it, ladies and gentlemen. Is everyone ready?"

A chorus of soft affirmatives ringed the large stage.

"Tres bien. Curtain!"

The curtain lowered quickly, the opening backdrop behind it. Meg and the other dancers moved silently to their places, leading the smallest girls by the hand.

"Mesdames et Messieurs," DuGaulle announced to the empty auditorium, "please allow me the honor of presenting to you…Chalumeau's _Hannibal_."

……….

The rehearsal ran with very few corrections, and they were done with a little under an hour before the play opened. They had skipped over several scenes, so that the performers would not tire themselves prematurely, and they managed to get through the entirety of the abbreviated opera without a single exasperated screaming fit from a distressed ballet mistress. Meg painfully recalled how that had happened twice during their last dress rehearsal for _Faust_, as she carefully added more wool cushioning to her toe shoes from a bin full of the fluff backstage. After that, she retired to the dressing corridor to apply her stage makeup with the other girls, listening with growing nerves as the noise in the auditorium increased, the doors having finally been opened for seating.

Then – where had the time gone? Before Meg knew it, the orchestra had struck up a preparatory tune and the lighting in the hallway was dimmed, and it was time to act.

As she took her place, Meg caught a glimpse of Christine, resplendent in a light blue silk gown and looking very uncomfortable standing so close to a sweaty Piangi. She looked as though the butterflies in her stomach were eating her from the inside out.

On impulse, Meg dashed silently across the stage and collided forcefully with Christine in a desperate embrace. Christine clutched at her friend for strength, and Meg whispered words of encouragement in her bejeweled ear.

"You'll do wonderfully," Meg assured her. "You look gorgeous. You an incredible singer. You _know _your part. Your Angel of Music is watching over you."

"Meg!"

A single frantic hiss issued from the twin mouths of Julie and Marie as they gestured frantically at her. Meg quickly bussed Christine on both cheeks for luck and hurried back to her spot. The music swelled, the lamps brightened, the curtains parted, and the gala began.

……

**Remember – reviews make my day!**


	11. A Comrade's Coverup

**Here, my public. Yet another chapter. Raoul's background and setup for a meeting with Erik. **

**Bohemiancane—My project went wonderfully, and I am in the process of creating a DevaintArt account so that I can post all of my art, yours included. Thank you so much for the use of your poem! (Anyone who hasn't read Sleepless Night by Bohemiancane04, do so now.)**

**Anyway, here.**

……

**Chapter 9**

**A Comrade's Cover-up**

The gala was a complete success.

Christine was the undisputed star of the evening. She brought an auditorium full of the wealthiest aristocrats in France to their feet. Never before had their ears been graced with the pure sounds of Heaven that had issued from that stage. No one had ever before experienced the _heart_ and _soul_ that Mlle Daae poured into her song, the purity of her notes, the vastness of her range, or the blinding glitter of her beauty. She became famous, a star overnight.

Afterwards, journalists from every newspaper in Paris crowded backstage, each vying for an interview with the sensational Miss Daae. The world was searching for a new shining star, and the journalists leapt over Mlle Daae as their big break. They described her as "a girl who had fallen in love for the first time" – so pure and innocent was the beauty and grace that she had brought to the stage, the passion with which she had infused her performance.

And they spoke of her thus because they could not find her afterwards, and no interviews were given.

…..

After the performance, Meg threaded her way backstage through the patrons, journalists, and lingering chorus girls, delicately navigating the sea of bodies with the grace of long practice. She scanned the crowd for any sign of her friend, but despite her advantage of several extra inches, she could see no sign of her.

_But of course_, Meg thought, _if she were here, she wouldn't be visible anyway, she'd be so surrounded by reporters_. Twice on her journey, Meg was accosted by a journalist in a grey felt fedora and carrying a notepad, demanding to know if she was acquainted with Mademoiselle Daae. Meg had replied briefly in the affirmative, but had left the hopeful pair without proffering any further information.

With painfully slow progress, Meg winded her way through the crowd farther and farther away from the stage. Slowly, the crowd thinned from a mass of pressing bodies, to scattered couples lining the smallest niches in the walls, frantic and unheeding. Meg turned her eyes from such interactions, not wishing to recognize the women pressed roughly against the walls. It would only make for more awkward situations later.

As soon as the corridors were clear enough, Meg broke into a trot, hurrying to the small chapel in the back corridor. She often wondered why the Opera's only place of worship was tucked so neatly into an unused back hallway, almost as though it had been an afterthought of the original designers. However, she suspected that, with all her talk of her father's Angel guiding her performance, this small room would be precisely where the illustrious Mlle Daae would currently be found.

"Christine?" Meg called hesitantly as she descended the small chapel stairway. She enjoyed the way her voice echoed when she repeated the call. "Christine?"

She entered the chapel to find her friend sitting on the floor in front of a rack of prayer candles, an extinguished stick of incense resting gently atop the flowing white skirts of Elisa's aria dress – that stunning fountain of white that had further promoted the audience's opinion of the new diva as an angel descended from Heaven. Christine had chosen this dress to make her curtain call in, as it was by far everyone's favorite, and she had apparently not bothered to change out of it before fleeing to give thanks for her great triumph.

Meg fell to the ground beside her friend and pulled her into a strong embrace. "Ah, you were _perfect_ tonight, mon amie. You looked and sang like an Angel of Heaven. I only wish I knew how you did it – or that I were half as blessed as you."

Christine smiled prettily at her, and Meg noticed the happy tears glittering in her friend's eyes. "Ah, Meg, you are lovely and talented in your own right. Truly I have been blessed, for the Angel of Music has given my spirit wings this night."

Meg smiled to hide her urge to frown. _How poetic – and again with this "Angel of Music"!_ But she didn't say anything. Questioning her belief in her Angel would not be good for Christine, when she had been under so much stress already today. Better to leave her to her stories, until the time was right to learn more about them.

"Come, Christine," she said, helping the smaller brunette to her feet so that she did not accidentally trod on her beautiful gown. "You must get back to your dressing room, and get out of that lovely dress before you muss it. We've several more performances to go yet. And you'll need an early night, what with all this excitement…" As she spoke, Meg led Christine up the stairs, having to walk a little in front of her because Christine's dress took up the entirety of the thin stairwell.

"Now, be warned. The whole world is apparently packed into our dressing room corridor, and they're all waiting to throw themselves at your feet in adoration."

Christine giggled, but her jaw dropped when she saw how little Meg was exaggerating. She froze at a corner, yanking Meg back roughly by their joined hands.

"I can't go out there!" Christine hissed. "What if they ask me who my teacher is? I can't tell the truth…I can't _lie_, He would know, and that would be betraying him, but no one would believe me…."

"Christine!" Meg cut through her babble with a laugh, and then stopped abruptly when she caught sight of her friend's face in the light. "Christine, your face! You're white as marble!"

"I'm…I'm frightened! I can't face them all!"

Meg took Christine's smaller hand in her own, noticing how frightfully cold it had suddenly become. The poor child was frightened to death of all the publicity she had unwittingly won herself! Or at least, that was what Meg assumed.

"Don't be frightened, ma copine. Wait here."

Meg watched as Christine retreated into the shadows, and then dashed off into the multitude, making her way to her own room as quickly as possible.

Inside, Meg found her mother waiting for her, sitting serenely on her bed with a single congratulatory rose for her. Meg smiled at the flower's gesture, and bussed her mother's cheeks in thanks, but cut off any words of praise her mother intended as she opened her mouth.

"Maman, Christine's stuck. She's afraid to get through the reporters to get to her room."

Madame Giry nodded understandingly, setting the flower aside and standing briskly. There was no wasting time around her when there was work to be done.

The ladies Giry exited the room together, and Madame Giry began sternly clearing a clear path around Christine's dressing room door while Meg went to retrieve her friend. She found Christine still pressed against the wall in the shadows. It seemed she had arrived just in time too – she could see the dark shape of a stagehand approaching down the corridor behind Christine. From the looks of him, it was that greasy Buquet fellow, and goodness knows what he would have done if he had gotten there first…

"Lean on me," Meg told Christine as they began walking towards the crowd. At the edge of the throng, Madame Giry met them, and guided them through the shouting, cheering people. Meg noticed how faint Christine looked, despite the way she tried to smile at the crowd, and couldn't tell whether or not she was acting.

With difficulty, the two Giry women got Christine into the dressing room and shut the door firmly against the hoard of journalists and fans. Firmly locking the door, Meg turned to the room and gasped.

Flower stands lined every available inch of wallspace, pots hung from the ceiling, and vases packed every flat surface save for the bed. Flora of every shade painted a rainbow of admiration across the dressing room, and the air hung thick with so many natural perfumes.

Christine's mouth hung open once again, and her lovely brown eyes were wide in astonishment as she stared around the room. Meg walked up to her, but Christine was too enraptured by the display of love to react.

"That's exactly how they all looked tonight, when you sang," Meg told her quietly, glowing with pride for her friend.

Madame Giry walked up beside them and pulled both girls into a strong embrace. "Ma deux petites filles," she said, voice thickening with pride and tears. "So grown up."

The three women hugged, until Madame Giry abruptly straightened, pulled away, and straightened her best dress. "Well, let's get you changed out of that costume," she said briskly.

"Oh, do I have to?" Christine asked playfully, her old good humor returning. "It's so lovely, I think I'll just wear it always!"

Meg laughed, and motioned for Christine to spin so she could unbutton her.

"Here, child," Meg heard her mother say as she worked on finding the tiny pearl buttons. "This is for you."

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" Meg asked, not looking up.

Her mother continued as though she hadn't heard. "You did very well tonight. He is pleased with you."

Meg looked up, fingers still working with the tiny buttons. "Who is? What is it?" she asked again, peering over Christine's shoulder to see what she had clasped in her hand.

It was a single red rose, thornless, tied simply around the middle with a black silk ribbon. Meg looked curiously at her friend's face, but Christine's eyes and face were lit up with a joy only for the flower.

"Eh, Christine? Who –"

"Never you mind, child," Madame Giry interrupted her, grabbing her arm and pulling her away. "Christine can undress from here. You should get your sleep."

And with that, she pulled her protesting daughter from the room.

"But Mother, who was that flower from? Was it from the Vicomte? Why does she like it best? Who sent that one to her, it did not have a card – "

"That's none of your business, child," Madame Giry said as they pushed through the still strong crowd and opened the door to Meg's dressing room. "Now, you did very well. Maybe someday soon, you will get your own chance at fame, just as Christine has had."

"Not likely, Meg muttered, shutting the door behind her and beginning to struggle with her own buttons. "Not unless the "Angel of Music" takes an interest in my dancing next."

Her mother was still listening at the door. _You never know…_

……

Alone in her room, Meg eventually undid the buttons up the back of her handmaiden's costume, a racy, low-cut, pale purple gown with flowered embroidery up the right side and slits up both legs to allow for the movement of her ballet steps. Once she had wrestled it off of her, which admittedly had involved much childlike spinning in a sad attempt to reach a few of the small buttons, and pulled her worn black nightshift on over her slip, the thin ballerina sat at her mirror for a long while, brushing her long blonde hair and singing softly to herself. She was far too excited from the day's activities to sleep, and, if truth be told, she was afraid of what awaited her in her dreams.

"With feasting and dancing and song…" she sang, gesturing dramatically with her hairbrush occasionally as she quietly relived the glory of the successful gala. It had gone so well, so amazingly well. She didn't want to forget it, but she knew she soon would. All performances fade and blur together in time, despite the excitement attached to them at the time.

Slowly, Meg felt a sense of extreme calm settling over her – a simple, empty-minded peace, without troubling thoughts of friends and Phantoms. As she sat and gazed at her reflection, rhythmically brushing her hair so that it shone healthily, she felt her eyelids growing heavy. Indeed, she was so tired that, instead of arousing her interminable curiosity, the low murmur of voices in the next room served only to lull her further into her sense of drowsy contentment. By the time the voices stopped and she heard the sound of a door closing next door, Meg was nearly ready to turn in. It had been a very long day, and she thought that by now she would be so worn out that she might at least achieve a dreamless sleep.

But her day was not over yet.

As soon as Meg finally set down her hairbrush and rose from her small makeup chair to cross to her bed, she heard the familiar pad of footsteps that was her only warning before the door burst open and Christine Daae entered. She looked highly distressed about something. Her normally porcelain cheeks were flushed, her eyes overbright with the day's exertion. She wore a sensible yet pretty with dressing gown over an equally lacy white nightshift and stockings, and her hair was unbound and flowed loose around her shoulders, dark curls contrasting sharply with the white fabric.

"Oh, Meg," she lamented, sounding quite upset, "I need your help! Raoul just invited me to dinner!"

"The Viscount? Oh, Christine, how wonderful!"

"No, it is _not_ wonderful!" Christine nearly wailed. Meg was perplexed. Wasn't this the same man she had been begging to notice her that morning? Or had that been a different Viscount? "I can't go out with him!"

"Whyever not? I mean, not dressed like that, you can't, but what's wrong with an innocent dinner? It's not as if he's asking you to –"

Christine interrupted her with a sigh and gave her head a nervous little shake, eying Meg with a look of forced patience.

"What's wrong is that the Angel of Music has forbidden me any earthly loves or displays of affection. He says He fears it would interfere with my studies. I am not allowed to go out to dinner with Raoul!"

Meg's exhausted brain didn't even try to process this absurd information, merely accepting the final sentence and bypassing all the others.

"Sure," Meg said evenly, sitting back down at her mirror and resuming the hypnotic brushing of her hair. She had nothing else to do, after all. "D'accord, Christine. I'll tell him you've fallen ill, and you don't feel well enough to go out tonight."

Christine sighed in relief. "Oh, would you, Meg? Thank you so much!" She swept down on her friend with a thankful hug, but Meg waved her away.

"Go on now, and get your rest."

Christine nodded and left, shutting the door behind her with a cheery "Goodnight!"

"Goodnight!" Meg called back, watching the reflection of the shutting door in the full-length mirror. As soon as it _click_ed firmly, Meg set her brush down again and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach and propping her sore feet up on her makeup table.

"So," she muttered to her reflection, directing a glare at a smear of blood across her left big toe that caught her eye, "the Viscount de Chagny." So that was whose voice she had heard. And the Angel of Music wouldn't allow him to court her. Meg nearly laughed aloud at how absurd it sounded in her own head. Christine let this Voice order that she have no "earthly loves," and she did not question it. What an odd girl.

"Sure, fine," Meg muttered, licking one finger and using it to delicately wipe off the smear of blood. "Whatever keeps her happy."

After only a few minutes, which Meg assumed was how long it would take le Viscount de Chagny to make his way down to the stables, order his hansom to ready for his journey, and hurry back, the sharp, quick step of men's boots could be heard on the carpeted corridor floor. Meg snagged a simple, soft black cotton dressing gown from her wardrobe, quickly pulled it over her arms and cinched the tie around her thin waist, and strode to the door. The show was on.

…..

Raoul, Viscount de Chagny, arrived nervously at the door of rising diva and his childhood playmate, Christine Daae. To think, the day he finally acquiesced to his brother's insistence that he "contribute to the finer social aspects of Parisian society" and joined their art-supporting community, his long-ago friend would be called upon to take the leading soprano role and be catapulted headfirst into fame and greatness! When Raoul had finally recognized her, he had been forced to physically fight his way through a horde of adoring new fans and story-hungry journalists for a glimpse of his old friend.

But when he had finally managed to meet with her, to congratulate her and reintroduce himself after so many years, she had not recognized him! Raoul had been shocked! How often had he thought of little Christine Daae on his voyages overseas, or in his large, lonely country estate in southern France? And yet, it seemed she had not thought of him as he had of her, despite their many hours of companionship before Monsieur Daae began to cough. Raoul had reminder her, in her flower-filled dressing room, of how they had first met, the day he fled from his governess to rescue little Christine's scarf as it was carried away by the wind and sea. And still Christine did not admit any sort of recognition of him! Finally he had demanded that she accompany him to a late dinner, where he promised he would jog her memory. She, however, had refused, saying that he was very kind, but she was very tired, and her tutor did not allow her to go out on performance nights.

However, the Viscount of Chagny had never learned to accept "no" as an answer.

And that was why he stood now, at her dressing room door once more, arm raised, poised and ready to knock. Once he gathered the courage.

"Monsieur le Viscount?"

A soft, clear woman's voice sounded from his right, and Raoul turned, lowering his hand. In the next doorway, a tall girl with shining blonde hair and large blue eyes leaned against the doorframe. She wore a soft-looking black dressing gown, with only the simplest of embroidery patterns across the chest. Only half of her face and body were visible, she was pressed so against the oaken doorframe, but Raoul thought that he might recognize her tall thin frame from the ballet line. He had really not been interested in watching much ballet after he recognized Christine, though, so he wasn't sure.

"Yes, mademoiselle?" he asked politely, stepping back from the door into the now-vacant hallway, so as to see more of the girl. He wondered what she wanted, if she were about to invite him into her room for a bit of extra coin. Raoul was not in the habit of indulging in the company and services of whores, but his time in the navy had taught him much about the way of such encounters.

His question was answered as the girl spoke again. Her voice was low and oddly precise – she talked with an older woman's accent despite her young years, and her tone was decidedly not that of a seductive whore.

"Mademoiselle Daae asked me to give you a message on your return, sir," Meg said politely, knowing that a woman of her low social status must be careful to be properly formal when addressing young noblemen. Even a viscount could be quite dangerous if offended, and many such men were particularly quick to take offence.

"Yes?" Raoul prompted, wondering why on earth the girl had used that long-winded sentence instead of simply "Christine says…"

"She says that she's terribly sorry she can't go out to dinner with out, but that she's feeling very poorly at the moment, and thinks she would really rather rest." Meg kept her deep blue gaze locked on his smaller, lighter eyes, giving weight and truth to her words.

Raoul was surprised to hear that Christine had fallen ill so suddenly, and that she had admitted to being sorry she would be unable to accompany him. This sounded very suspicious, but there was an innocence in the girl's face and a tambour to her voice that made it nearly impossible to disbelieve her.

"What's wrong with her?" Raoul demanded, and Meg resisted the urge to cock one dark eyebrow at his suddenly sharp tone, but she could not avoid the way her back stiffened ever so slightly. Raoul noticed, and his tone softened as he added, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Meg smiled at the worry apparent on the young man's handsome face. So maybe his interest in Christine was pure and genuine after all. She pushed herself off of the doorframe with a torque of her body, keeping her arms folded at her waist, and swiveled to rest her back against the hallway side of the oak frame. "Non, monsieur," she said sweetly, "I believe it is just all of the stress and excitement. She…" Meg coughed embarrassedly – it was not appropriate to discuss a lady's illness with a man who was not a relative – "was complaining of her stomach and her head, and she became dizzy when she came to ask me to give you her regrets." Meg shook her hair back from her face and her voice became stronger as she continued, "It is nothing that I believe a good night's rest can't cure, monsieur."

"Please, mademoiselle, call me Raoul," he said with a kind smile, relieved that Christine's illness was nothing serious. It made him feel much older than his twenty years to have this young woman address him so formally, even if he was several rungs above her on the social ladder.

Meg smiled and pushed herself off the wall, stepping forward and curtseying respectfully. "Meg Giry," she said, straightening so that she was on a level with the young nobleman.

"So, _Raoul_, what brings you to our beautiful city of lights?"

Raoul's smile was uneasy, as if he sensed somehow that this young woman was seeking to distract him.

"I am visiting my brother in between assignments," he said, his attention not really on his words.

"Assignments?"

"Yes, I am a sailor." Meg gave a slight nod and noise of acknowledgement. "In the French Royal Navy. I have been overseas for the last year, and I will soon be departing for the North Pole, on an expedition."

"The North Pole! How exciting!"

"Yes," Raoul said again, finally warming to the conversation. "I will have to depart at the end of winter, but until then, I shall enjoy all that the cream of Parisian society has to offer me – which includes seeing a great deal of this Opera House."

Meg smiled, and her mouth opened to say more, but the words died in her throat as two pairs of ears heard a sound that made two young hearts stop beating and the breath catch in two sets of lungs.

A man's voice, deep, resounding, strong – the same voice Meg had heard from that very spot that morning – could be heard from _inside Christine Daae's dressing room_.

"Christine, you must love me."

The soprano's softer voice could barely be heard, but to the listeners, it sounded as though the young woman were nearly in tears.

"How can you say that to me? To me, who sings only for you?"

There was a pause, and then the voices resumed so softly that the words were no longer distinguishable. One more exchange of words, and gradually the voices stopped altogether.

The two unintentional eavesdroppers stared at each other. Raoul's face was a mixture of confusion, hurt, betrayal, and anger, while Meg fixed hers so that she was simply regarding the young viscount with curiosity and concern.

"Monsie—Raoul?" Meg asked coolly, thankful that her voice did not croak, her throat was so tight. She must pretend she had heard nothing.

Without a word, Raoul spun and seized the handle to Christine's door. He tried to turn it, open it, storm in and demand to know what man's company she kept in her private dressing room when she was supposedly too ill to go out to dinner!

He shook the door roughly in frustration. "Whose is that voice?" He demanded, loudly enough to be clearly heard in the room beyond. "Who is that in there? Christine!"

"Monsieur!" Meg cried in a scandalized tone, hurrying forward and laying a restraining hand upon Raoul's arm. Whatever deception Christine was keeping, Meg assumed she had a good reason for it. "Sir, please! Christine is ill; she should not be disturbed! Please, sir, you will wake her!"

"Nonsense," Raoul spat at her, though if she had not been a lady he would have said something much coarser. "She is awake yet. You hear her talking to that…man! Tell me, Mlle Giry, does Christine privately entertain gentlemen often?"

Meg stepped back from him and put a hand to her chest, looking severely affronted. "My lord viscount! I don't know what would give you an idea like _that_, but I _assure_ you, Mlle Daae does no such thing! She is a good, clean girl, and she does not take lightly gentleman visitors after-hours." This Meg added with a severe glare at Raoul that was far too like her mother's.

Raoul sputtered indignantly. " 'A good, clean girl'? When we have just heard _a man's voice_ issuing form her private quarters?"

"What?"

"That voice, the man's to which she was speaking –"

He trailed off as he noticed Meg's wide-eyed, apprehensive look. "What?"

Meg paused. "Are...are you feeling well, monsieur?" Raoul stared at her. She continued worriedly. "Per-Perhaps you too are a bit tired from all of the evening's excitement. It has been a very busy day for you as well."

Raoul sputtered. She thought he was crazy! "I'm not mad, and I'm not hearing things! There was a –"

"If it's not too bold, monsieur, I think it's time you caught your carriage and left Christine to her rest," she said firmly.

Raoul continued to sputter, but she ignored him.

"Goodnight, Monsieur le Viscount," she said with another curtsey, her black cotton dressing gown pooling slightly on the floor as she dipped formally. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

And with that, she left a bewildered Raoul de Chagny standing alone in the empty dressing room corridor, looking and feeling decidedly lost. After several more moments of gazing blankly at the closed doors of the girls' silent dressing rooms and mouthing indignantly at the empty air, Raoul eventually made his way through the darkening corridors out to his waiting carriage, to make his solitary ride home to his brother's vast city apartments. But he would not give up hope. He _would_ remind Christine Daae of the good times they had spent together, and she _would _enjoy his company.

Someday.

…..

Back at the Opera, Meg waited patiently until the young nobleman's footsteps had long retreated down the corridor. She breathed a sigh of relief that he had not called out her acting, as she had been terribly frightened he would. It had not been easy to hide her shock at the reappearance of _the man's voice_, but Meg had been trained to act for well over half of her young life.

With grim determination, Meg re-tightened the belt of her dressing gown and silently opened the door to a dark, empty hallway. Clenched tightly in her fist was a single key, to her best friend's dressing room.

Visitors or no, Christine Daae had answers, and Meg was not going to leave until she heard them.

……

Okay, here's the deal. You just got a long chapter, and I've got a great deal of the next one typed up already. But you don't get it until I get…four reviews. That's all I need.

And there's loads of action in the next chapter. Look, action! I promise!

**Yes, I'm holding your story hostage for reviews. It's a psychosupport thingie for me. **

**Love! **

**Paige Turner. **


	12. Searching for a Soprano

**Okay, so I lied. I couldn't resist putting this one up too. Please review anyway!**

**Chapter 10:**

**Searching for a Soprano**

In the near-blackness of the hallway, Meg trailed on hand lightly along the wall as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She reached Christine's door and swiftly unlocked it, inserting and turning the small brass key with the ease of years of practice.

As the door opened, a wave of perfumes hit Meg as solidly as a brick wall. _It was a wonder Christine had not suffocated with all of these flowers_, Meg thought as she coughed softly.

"Christine?" she called, confused. A desk gas lamp burned softly on the nightstand, barely visible, its flickering light tinted an eerie red as it filtered through a mass of rose petals. In the faint glow, Meg could see enough of the room to determine clearly that her friend was not present.

_Where could she be?_ Meg wondered, setting her key down on a flower-strewn table with a soft _clink_. _The door was still locked, and I'd have heard her leave. _

But there was no sign of Miss Daae, or the mysterious man's voice.

Erik sighed in a jumble of emotions as he hurried along the hidden passageway. Nothing was going as planned! Well, some things were: Christine _had_ pledged her love to him – to her Angel of Music, he _had _successfully brought her from her dressing room without a messy commotion. Oh, to think that, even for a moment, even not knowing it was a real living breathing man who led her, she had followed him, come to him willingly!

But it had not lasted. The extent of his deception had caught up with him, and the poor beautiful child had seen him standing there, watching, and he could see the hurt and confusion, no, the _betrayal_ and the _bewilderment_ at seeing a flesh-and-blood man standing before her, beckoning gently. But he was not a whole man, with barely any flesh to speak of, and he recalled this with horrible clarity as he watched the terror grow in her young, wide brown eyes, as beautiful and big and innocent as those of a young fawn. And she had opened her lovely mouth, parted those perfect lips and drawn breath to scream, to cry out in fear of him as so many had done in his cursed life, and he could not bear it.

He had seized her then, _touched_ her roughly and without her permission, and the abhorrent action filled him with the same horror as it did her. Her scream was muffled by his long skeletal fingers over her mouth, and he cherished the terrified breath on his dead hand. But then she tried to draw breath again, to cry out again, and she smelt the death on his hand and she had fainted.

Erik had watched her as she went limp in his arms, looking as peaceful and perfect in sleep as an angel dropped from Heaven. He could, of course, have deposited her back neatly in her room, and she would have remembered nothing other than a strange dream the following day. But he had gone too far to back out now.

And so he had carried her, down the seven subterranean levels of the cellars to where a black, ornately finished gondola waited at the edge of an immense underground lake, and laid her gently at the prow of the boat, and ferried the pair of them to the small house that waited, dark and silent, atop the ever-dark waters. He had deposited her ever so delicately in the room he had painstakingly prepared for her, as though fearful she might break if he jostled her sleeping form. And still she slept on, drained by the day's work and excitement, triumph and fame and fright.

Perhaps, Erik and thought as he lay her softly on her enormous cushioned bed, she would be more comfortable if she were to wake to surroundings that were more familiar. It occurred to him to leave her here and return to her dressing room, and retrieve some of her personal effects; possibly some clothes or flowers from her many admirers. Yes, that would be sure to please her! Erik would do anything to please her.

That was why he made his silent, catlike way now through the dark passageway, his eyes glinting golden behind the mask. He would bring flowers, and clothes, and perhaps a few small comforting trinkets to his Angel, and perhaps she would not hate him so upon waking. Erik could not bear her hate.

His feet carried him to Christine's mirror without any need of conscious direction, he had made the trip so many countless times before. But when he arrived, instead of immediately tripping the counterweight mechanism that would slide the mirror open noiselessly, the Phantom of the Opera froze in his tracks.

There she was again! That confounded Giry girl! Erik swore mentally, asking himself furiously why he had ever agreed to help that meddlesome little twit. Why couldn't she stand idly by and allow herself to be manipulated, just another pawn in his Opera game, as so many others unwittingly did? Why did she have to stick her nose into everyone else's business?

With growing anger and apprehension, Erik watched as the young woman set a key down delicately on one flower-strewn table, glancing nervously around at the vacant room. Through the hollow bricks of the wall between them, Erik could clearly hear her whisper his Angel's name.

Then he saw her eyes focus on his gift to Christine, his token of approval for her – their – great triumph. His single red rose, tied perfectly with a length of black silk, lay on the floor before the mirror. One side of the flower bore petals slightly bent by their impact with the floor – Christine must have dropped it when he drew her trancelike through the mirror. Erik had not noticed it.

Slowly, her bare feet making no noise on Christine's carpet, Meg approached the mirror and knelt slowly in front of it, delicately picking up the rose and bringing it to her face. Erik looked down at her, some part of him aware that he could see down through her loose dressing gown and nightshift, and that she wore no stockings or slippers on her small feet. Ignoring this, he crouched, his voluminous black cloak billowing around him. his lithe black frame and golden eyes and predatory stance making him look for all the world like a waiting panther, poised to strike.

As he moved, Meg Giry's blonde head shot up, and cold blue chips of ice met pools of molten gold through the mirror. Erik had to briefly reassure himself that the mirror was indeed unidirectional, so intent was her gaze into his. Curse him – had he not thought that she would hear the faint swish of his cloak in the complete silence?

Slowly, Meg's eyes refocused on the mirror itself, and Erik saw a calculating gleam creep into those large blue orbs. She reached out one thin pale hand, and Erik was startled by how very like his own her long thin digits were. This hand was soon joined by the other, as Meg set down the rose and began to run her hands over the edges of the large panel of glass, searching for and finding the faintest cold draft.

Distractedly, Erik noticed the excellent balance the ballerina possessed as she slowly stood, both hands still lightly trailing the edges of the mirror. More urgent in his mind was what the young dancer was attempting to do – she had surmised that the only exit from this room from her friend and _the man's voice_ was most likely this mirror, and gathered that there must be a way to open it from this side!

Rising himself and biting back an animalistic snarl, Erik sunk deeper down the corridor, allowing the blackest of shadows to consume him. He would teach this meddlesome little wench to interfere with his affairs!

From the folds of his cloak, Erik drew his famous weapon, a thin, knotted length of catgut that had taken the lives of countless men during _the rosy hours of Mazendaran_ – the Punjab lasso.

In the dressing room, Meg felt delicately around the mirror, sure that there was a catch mechanism somewhere. Instinct, and that inexplicable draft, told her that this was surely Christine's unknown exit. Her fingers lightly kneaded the wood paneling either side of the mirror now, and soon she was rewarded with a soft _click_ as she found a fake knot in the wood which depressed at her careful touch! The mirror began to slowly slide to the right, disappearing into the wall.

Meg leapt to one side as the mirror opened and a blast of cold air washed through. Slowly, she peeped her blonde head into the opening, peering blindly down the dark corridor. She quickly retrieved a candle in a brass candlestick off Christine's dresser and lit it, holding it before her like a flaming weapon. The darkness was cool, and Meg was sure she would have found it comforting if she had not been so completely unaware of its presence before now.

Ever so nervously, Meg made her way slowly down the corridor, her ceaseless curiosity overriding her fear. If she had left any lights on in her own dressing room, she would have been surprised to notice that it too could be viewed from this hidden passage, but Meg had left it dark, and she did not notice.

Fear continued to grow in Meg's chest as she walked further down the corridor, and soon she was forced to sing softly to herself, to chase back the oppressive darkness.

_Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation._

_Darkness wakes, and stirs imagination…_

She didn't know where she'd heard that before – the words came out of her mouth as suddenly as the popped into her head. But she agreed with them completely.

"It certainly does," she said to herself, comforted by the sound of her own voice. She did not know that her words were blocking the only chance she had of catching the near-silent sound of the footsteps that were always retreating just beyond her faint circle of light.

A sudden _squeak_ from by her left foot caused her to jump in alarm, her nerves were so tightly strung from the darkness. As she spun to see what had made the noise, another sound came from behind her – this one much more frightening.

It was the sound of the mirror closing.

Immediately forgetting about the rats, Meg's heart tightened at the faint but firm sound the mirror made as it swung shut. For some reason, it reminded Meg of the sound of a coffin lid closing, but she told herself that was just the darkness making her morbid.

"Well, I suppose that mean's I'm committed," Meg told herself lightly, turning back to continue down the corridor. She lowered the candle briefly, to warm her left hand against the flame. The passage was really so cold…

And then came a pale flash, whipping toward her so quickly that Meg had no time to react. All she could do was scream as she felt the thin, sinewy cord tighten around her neck. Her hands flew to her throat to scrabble uselessly at the catgut lasso, and she dropped her candle. With the dull _clang_ of brass on stone, everything was plunged into complete blackness.

……

**I know this is pretty short, but I wanted a cool cliffhanger. Ain't I a stinker? **


	13. A First Encounter with a Frightening Eri

**Haha. I love you guys.**

**Anyway, here's the E/M interaction you've all**

been waiting for. Happy reading! 

…

…

**Chapter 11**

**A First Encounter with a Frightening Erik**

With carefully controlled force, Erik roughly tugged on the Punjab lasso, pulling the terrified ballerina towards him was a master angler would play a prized fish. He had to be careful – a wrong move from either of them would snap the young woman's neck thin neck like a brittle piece of straw, and Erik was far too preoccupied at the moment to have to deal with the disposing of her body.

After he had forced her several stumbling steps forward, Erik let the slack out of his catgut weapon, brought his foot down on the loose length, and tugged again, even more viciously.

Meg's hands barely left her neck in time to catch herself against the rough stone floor – as it was, she felt a stinging pain on both knees that told her she had torn through her robe, nightshift, and skin. She made no attempt to get up. She merely remained kneeling and shaking on the floor, eyes staring wide and blind at the stone floor, invisible even though it was mere inches from her nose. Unbidden, memories of that afternoon's dream flitted across her mind, and her every sense was attuned for any hint of her attacker's presence. She wondered if he would beat her – if he would rape her. She did not believe in phantoms, and had learned to expect no less than the worst physical violence from strange men met in dark corridors. She prepared to defend herself, though she doubted it would be of any use.

Erik watched the way the poor creature braced herself against the floor, his keen eyes noting even in the darkness how the sinews were visible in her thin hands, belying the tenseness of her cowering position. He laughed to himself at her pitiful attempts to fight her fear, and he did not miss the shudder that ran through her frame as the sinister sound slid over her, weakening her resolve.

In an instant of uncharacteristic inattention, Erik momentarily slackened his grip on the noose that bound young Giry. He allowed himself not to view her as a threat, to feel the faintest cold shred of sympathy for her, and little Meg seized her chance.

With the quick reflexes born from years of dancing, Meg tore the noose from her neck and scrambled to her feet, already starting forward like a runner at the starting block. Only then did she realize that she had absolutely no idea where the mirror exit was, what _direction_ it was in, or how to open it once she got there.

This sudden realization hit Meg hard, and she stumbled sideways, nearly falling hard against the wall as she trod on the hem of her dressing gown, which had fallen loose in all the excitement. She barely caught herself against the smooth cold stone of the wall and pressed herself against it, shaking, wishing she could simply melt into the stone.

In the next instant, the Phantom was pressed against her, one skeletal hand enveloping her already bruised throat. Everything about him had the rotting, cloying stench of death as his mask loomed close, and his breath was hot on her face.

"Did I not instruct you," he hissed, his normally beautiful voice contorted into something cold and harsh, "to take care not to roam at night?"

As Meg's eyes adjusted to the darkness and she remained motionless, she noticed that the faintest glimmer of light shone from where she assumed Christine's dressing room mirror would be. The tiny glow caught and highlighted the frightening mask, causing it almost to glow in the near pitch darkness. She could not bear to see it, and so her only response was to squeeze her eyes tightly shut in fear, and to turn her face away. One trembling hand was raised between them in a half-hearted attempt to protect her face.

With a snarl of disgust, Erik violently flung the terrified child away from him, and she crumpled into a black-garbed heap against the floor. She supported herself partway with one hand, but the other still shook as she held it weakly between herself and her assailant. Her body was curled slightly with a protective instinct that Erik knew only too well, and her face was turned from him, hidden by her curtain of shining blonde hair.

He would do it now – she knew. He would beat her, kill her, rape her, and no one would ever know what had become of her. She expected no less of him, and Erik could see it in the curve of her long trembling body.

A wave of sympathy suddenly struck him, immediately followed by curiosity. He sensed more to this girl's fear than the standard reaction to this admittedly deadly situation. But really, there was only one way to find out?

"Who are you, child, who dares encroach upon my domain of night?" Erik boomed, throwing his voice so that it echoed from all around the cowering child. "Who are you, and what is your business in this place of darkness?

A lie was the first thing to pop into Meg's terror-stricken mind,

"L-Lissette Georges," she stammered, her posture never changing. "I was just coming to talk to Chris—"

"LIAR!"

The shout caused Meg to jump and flinch badly.

"Do not think to lie to me, Mademoiselle Giry. I know who you are, you little wretch, and I see through your lies. What are you doing up and about so very late?"

The Voice had tapered gracefully to silk sliding smoothly over steel, power coiling in every syllable.

Meg's voice shook badly, and she cursed it as she tried her best to respond evenly.

"My name is Megara Giry, and I _was_ only coming to talk to Christine."

"At so late an hour? What could you possibly have to discuss?"

Something in Meg's fear-fogged mind reminded her that this terrifying apparition was most likely a warped version of Christine's Angel of Music, and that Christine had sent her childhood friend away with a lie that night because she desperately did not want her Angel to associate her with Raoul.

"I—I don't know," Meg said, bobbing her head in what passed for a shrug when she was busy cowering. "Christine usually does the talking. I couldn't sleep, and I just needed the company."

"Ah," Erik breathed, letting the word wrap around the girl with a hiss and making her shiver. "The darkness brings many nightmares, does in not?"

Something in his words made Meg briefly forget her petrifying situation, and remember instead how she normally thought of the dark, what had drawn her to the shadows her whole life.

"Yes. No." Meg's quiet contradiction was barely caught even by Erik's sharp ears. "Dreams can come true in the darkness as well."

Erik's face was impassive behind its porcelain shield, but his voice held the faintest hint of a smile. "Quite an unusual choice of dream, my dear child," he mocked. "Why do you say that?"

Meg shook her head, her eyes wide and unfocused, her mind in another time and place. "In the darkness the bruises only look like shadows."

Only Erik's years of practice at showing no emotion allowed him to hide his shock and sympathy at the girl's quiet words. How many times in his childhood had he welcomed the night for that very reason? Perhaps he would not kill her after all…

Meg was still staring unseeingly at the cold floor before her when her straining ears caught the approaching rustle and swish of fabric. Suddenly, she was seized roughly and yanked upright by a viselike grip on her arm, and the action's similarity to her past and her dream caused a reversion to a manner she had not been forced to use in years.

She stood, silently, head bowed and eyes half-lidded, radiating humble submission. She did not speak, or move, as she had learned to do. She thought she had forgotten this attitude, the fear that washed over her in crashing waves, the anticipation that twisted her stomach, the twinge of old scars as she remembered the pain. And she waited for the abuse she was sure would soon come. She only hoped that if she submitted, he would be less rough with her.

She flinched greatly as Erik's cold hand gripped her chin, forcing her face up. For all the bravado he had seen her display in the past, she now kept her eyes meekly on the floor. Oh, Erik recognized these symptoms – the sudden change in manner was the trademark of one who had had docility and respect beaten into her. How many years of his life had Erik spent, cowering whenever he thought he had crossed a line, even when in fact no one wished him ill? As if _that_ had ever happened…

"Are you afraid of me, child?"

The question caught Meg so completely off guard that she accidentally allowed her eyes to flick up briefly to the immobile porcelain visage above her. Was she frightened of this mysterious man, who had accosted her in a passage she had never known existed, who had most likely kidnapped her best friend, who now held her face so roughly and stood much more closely to her than any respectable man should? His very presence exuded an aura of power so intimidating that Meg wondered if she would be able to think clearly around him even if they had not met under such disquieting circumstances. "Yes."

Erik sighed with an immeasurable sadness as he caught her cursory glance. Of course – the mask. Why should this girl be any different; they all ran at the sight of him. His presence was on a level with that of a monster under her bed, he knew, but somehow it still hurt his bruised heart at times to have innocents and strangers automatically fear him for his appearance.

It was a common fault of Erik's that he blamed others' fear on his appearance, rather than his actions. Though he had meant to frighten, briefly even to kill, this meddlesome young woman, he did not blame solely his actions for her terror.

Meg was silent in the aftermath of her confession, wondering how this strange Phantom would use the empowering knowledge of her fear.

She sensed the moment that Erik became the stony Phantom once more. He was _tired_ of people judging him as a creature, even if he was not a human as they saw it. He would not further associate with this ballerina and her limited views.

"Then I suggest, mademoiselle, that from this moment on you _heed my instructions_, and _take care_ not to venture into my domain or my affairs again, or I may be forced to resort to drastic measures."

Meg's heart leapt in her chest as it occurred to her that he might not harm her after all. Still, the nearness of that imposing white mask quelled her joy, and she was only able to nod, wide eyes daring to meet his own. It was with a severe shock that she realized she _could_ see his eyes – somehow, despite the near absence of light, two orbs of golden fire glinted faintly in the darkness.

In her relief that she might not be harmed, her natural wit seized control of her mouth and sought to appease this imposing man.

"How will I stay out of your domain, when this is _your_ Opera House, and my life is here?"

Erik smiled ever so faintly behind the mask, though it did not reach his hard eyes. The girl was clever, but clever girls pried too much into his affairs. This girl and her gossiping fellow ballet rats had displayed far too great of an interest in him already. He was not an _animal_ to be discussed and analyzed, and he was not amused by Meg's attempt at humor.

Abruptly, Erik relinquished his hold on Meg's arm and jaw, stepping back and retreating into the darkest of shadows. Meg was still too frightened to dare to hope, to dare to move, though she relaxed the tiniest bit from her cower against the wall.

"You are free to go, Mademoiselle Giry," the voice boomed, once again echoing eerily from all around her. "Under the condition that you speak to no one of your discoveries tonight, and that you henceforth mind your own business."

"Yes, sir," Meg agreed, the words tumbling over one another as she nodded vigorously. "Yes, sir!"

"Very well," Erik said, causing his voice to diminish in the opposite direction as he silently crept towards his Angel's mirror. "You may go." A simple touch of the counterbalance mechanism, and it looked for all the world as if the mirror swung itself open.

Meg needed no further encouragement. Picking up her skirts in one hand, she sprinted towards the open passage as if she feared it would slam shut at any second, passing unheedingly within a foot of Erik's motionless form.

…..

Erik watched through the mirror's opening until the last blonde flick of her hair had disappeared into the hallway and the door had slammed hastily shut. Then, as coolly and calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, Erik stepped into the room and began methodically collecting flower vases, books, a small painting of Christine's late father, and some clothes. He did not bring much, as it was a long trek down to his underground home and he did not want to fool with carrying much. Besides, he had purchased enough over the past few months that his Angel should not want for anything upon awakening, and he only wanted to proved her with enough familiar objects so as to be comfortable with him.

She _would _learn to love him…to tolerate him, at least. She _would_. She had to.

….

…..

Immediately upon reentry, Meg fumbled blindly until she found her box of matches and lit her small Persian oil lamp, which was still resting exactly where the Phantom had left it that morning. Meg shivered again as she quickly shucked off her dressing gown and draped it carelessly over the back of her small wooden chair, thinking about how that terrifying man she had now encountered twice in the dark bowels of the Opera had been alone with her sleeping body in this very room the night previous. Even the weight of her new blankets brought no comfort as she slipped into bed, now clad only in her old nightshift, seeing has how she had come to possess them.

It was times like these when she envied the other dancers – the ordinary girls who all slept together in the dormitories on the third floor during performances, and had families and homes to return to between runs. As permanent residents of the Opera Garnier and wards of Madame Giry with no other home to turn to, both Meg and Christine had been given their own dressing rooms at the age of fifteen. Meg's mother had insisted that they needed more storage space and privacy than the other girls. It would not have been proper, or fair, to give the two girls rooms like those of staff members, but the two had been allowed to choose from dressing rooms on the first floor, since those rooms would not be otherwise needed.

Right now, though, Meg regretted the walls that surrounded her, isolating her in darkness, as opposed to the large open spaces and windowed walls of the dormitory shared by Lissette and the twins and the other girls their age. The silence pressed in on her ears, and she pulled the thick covers up to her face in a tight cocoon.

As her fear slowly abated in the silence, Meg's mind began to cloud. She focused her eyes on the small flickering flame of the oil lamp on her bedside table, her vision tunneling on its only light source. With a merciful speed, Meg's mind finally fogged over in exhaustion, and her eventful day, full of introductions, disasters, surprises, triumphs, deceptions, and terrors, was finally over.

…

…

**Sorry this was pretty short, but you can only stay interested for so long while Meg's continually terrified, and she's not going to stop being afraid of him on their first meeting.**

**Hey, for those of you who are interested, I've got most of my pics uploaded to my DeviantArt gallery. Unfortunately, most of my more recent pics aren't showing up. So, you'll just have to be cursed with my old crap until the new junk decides to show. **

**If you wish your eyes to bleed (and I'm serious now, my old stuff is CRAP) go to _p3pp3rmint. deviantart. com _ , except without the spaces. No www required. **

**Eh, keep up the good reviewing work! **

**Love, **

**Paige Turner**


	14. A Lot of Lying

**Sorry the last chapter was kinda short. I didn't really like it that much, but I feel like the quality of my story's gonna drop. I don't know why, but I do.**

**Okay, so maybe "E/M interaction" was a bit of a misnomer, but they interacted, didn't they?**

**Anyway, ever wonder why no one was freaking out at the Opera House when Christine just dropped off the face of the earth for two weeks? Here.**

**Oh, and Meg's having one of _those_ days. You know, the ones where you wake up feeling rotten and you just want to lie in bed until it's all over. That's how I'm feeling with my strep throat right now, but I actually wrote this part before I became sick. That's how she wakes up feeling.**

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**Chapter 12**

**A Lot of Lying, a Repulsive Return**

As Meg was awoken the next morning by the familiar sounds of a stirring opera house, it was several moments before she could explain the cold feeling of dread in her stomach. She felt awful, as though she hadn't gotten a single wink of sleep. As the clatter of a single pair of high-heeled boots echoed down the nearest wooden staircase, Meg only rolled over in her blanket bundle so that her nose was an inch from the oak paneling of the wall.

_Oh, no, _Christine! She thought as she groaned. What was she going to do?

The distinctive _click_ of her mother's boots reached Meg's ears, and it occurred to her that perhaps she wouldn't have to think up something to do after all.

"Time to get up, Meg, let's go," Madame Giry called, far too cheerful for the early hour of the morning.

Meg's response was an inarticulate groan muffled by the blankets pulled up over her mouth, but her mother made no comment as she continued down the hall.

"Christine? Time to wake up, dear!" Meg lay motionless as she listened to her mother rattle Christine's door handle.

"Christine?" More rattling.

"Christine!" Now a jingle as Madame Giry fumbled with the key ring tied at her waist, a rattle as she worriedly unlocked the door.

_Here we go…_ Meg thought resignedly.

"Meg!"

Meg answered with another inarticulate groan as her mother stormed out of Christine's room and into her own.

"Meg, wake up!"

Groggily, Meg sat up, her new blankets falling heavily off of her thin shoulders and onto her lap. Madame Giry was taken aback by the sight of her. Her daughter's eyes were underscored with dark shadows, her blonde hair frizzed in a messy cloud around her head, her skin was deathly pale, and the prop of her arms on her pillows caused her sharp collarbones over her nightshift to stand out in stark relief.

Meg stared back at her mother with wide, empty eyes. Madame Giry was dressed in a loose, dark navy gown, with large gold buttons across the chest and a gold-embroidered navy shawl clasped neatly about her shoulders. She had clearly been in a good mood after the previous night's triumph, and Meg hated to ruin her happiness, but there were more important things at stake here.

"Mon Dieu, you look terrible, cherie!" Mme Giry said with a look of intense worry.

Meg waved off her exclamation with a limp flip of a wrist and flopped back down heavily onto her pillows, pulling the blankets back over her head to block out the light her mother let in from the lantern-lit hallway.

Brisk in her concern, Mme Giry crossed to Meg's bedside and placed a cool hand on Meg's forehead. The child was not warm – on the contrary, the girl's pale skin was cool to the touch – so there was thankfully no sign of a fever.

"Are you feeling alright, Meg dear?" Mme Giry murmured soothingly.

Meg nodded. "I'm fine," she muttered. "I just… didn't sleep well."

Mme Giry nodded, patting the blankets atop her daughter in a comforting manner. Suddenly she stopped, focusing on the thick, high-quality bed coverings under her hand.

"Meg? Where did you get these?"

Meg shrugged and rolled over, burrowing her face into her pillow.

"From the prop closet," Meg mumbled. "Mine were full of holes."

"Did you ask Madame DuLevre?"

"No, but there was a younger woman there at the same time, who might have been one of her assistants, and she said she's tell her."

Madame Giry nodded, satisfied by this entirely false explanation. Then she remembered why she had come.

"Oh, Meg! Christine – she's gone! She's not in her room!"

Meg didn't move. "Je sais."

Mme Giry's intake of breath was clearly audible. "Did she…that viscount…not Christine!"

Meg opened her eyes only to roll them. "Non, Maman, elle n'a pas parti avec le viscount heir soir."

"Then where –?"

"Je ne sais pas. I went to talk to her last night after the viscount had left, and she was not there. I heard her in her room, I saw the Viscount leave, I didn't see her leave, and then she was gone." Meg laughed bitterly. "Maybe it was the _Phantom of the Opera_," she said, her voice laced heavily with sarcasm.

Madame Giry's face paled several shades when it dawned on her that her daughter's bad-tempered joking was probably correct. _If the Opera Ghost had been teaching Christine…and he would certainly have the power…oh my God…_

Meg had turned her face back into her pillow, wiggling her feet until they were free of the winding sheets. "Well? Any plans as to what you're going to tell the new managers?"

Madame Giry took these words like a physical blow, and Meg immediately regretted her callous speech. Sighing, she sat up and flung the blankets off her, suddenly far too warm.

In a softer, kinder voice, Meg said, "I was thinking we could tell them what I told the Viscount last night, when Christine didn't want to see him anymore. We could say that she has fallen gravely ill with yesterday's excitement, and is in absolutely no condition to perform. We already had the gala – after opening night the audience descends the social ladder – no one will complain. I'm sure you could," Meg grimaced, "write Carlotta, and she would return to sing. If the new managers sent a bribe."

"Don't you think they will be suspicious, want to see her?"

Meg shook her head, warming to her plan. "All men know that women are delicate creatures, who must not be excited. They will believe that Christine has fallen ill, and we can say that she is healing at a friend's house in the city. She will be quite safe until she is well again, and she will return before the next opera is cast." _If only I could be sure that that were true…_

Madame Giry stood abruptly, and straightened her dress and shawl in Meg's large mirror. "Yes, that might work, dearest." She turned and gave Meg two swift kisses on each cheek, and cupped her face gently in one small hand. "Get cleaned up and dressed, Meg. We have a brush-up rehearsal this morning, and you shouldn't be late. I'll go speak to the managers about Christine's… illness."

Meg smiled weakly after her mother as she quit the room, the door swinging quietly shut behind her. With another groan, she pushed herself off of the bed and slid over to her wooden makeup chair. When she first caught sight of herself in her small makeup mirror, it took all of her willpower not to turn around and dive headfirst back into bed. God, she _did_ look awful.

But Meg had been a member of the theatre troupe long enough to well appreciate the miracles of stage makeup. Putting her face close to the mirror over the table, she quickly applied enough concealer, powder, and eye makeup to lessen her resemblance to a cancer victim. After reassuring herself that she would no longer scare the other girls, Meg dressed in a practice skirt and leotard identical to the one she had worn the day previous.

Now considering herself mildly presentable, Meg made to follow her mother down the hall. At the doorway, however, she stopped, her eye having been caught by a pile of dirty laundry from the day before. Sighing, as she _really_ didn't feel like dealing with anything today, she scooped up the discarded garments and dumped them in a hamper for the maids to collect later. As the bundle hit the bottom of the hamper, Meg heard a crunching sound, and she sighed. She dug trough the hamper until she emerged with the Phantom's crumpled note, with bits of wax sticking to the back the only remnants of the scarlet death's head seal.

As she stared at the wrinkled note, memories of the previous night flashed across her mind with an overwhelming clarity. _The fabled lasso flashing toward her, the white mask glowing in the blackness, the skeletal hand on her throat, the grate of his powerful voice on her ears…_

Meg arose from the memory to find she had her hands clasped over hear ears in an attempt to block out a voice that was only in her mind. Startled at her own actions, she lowered her hands to her throat, trying to forget the feel of those dead fingers there. She winced. Checking her throat in the mirror, she groaned. Faint bluish bruising was already showing up against her pale skin. _Damn_.

If that had been a man in that corridor last night, he was the most terrifying, the most powerful, the least to-be-trifled-with man she had ever seen.

And he had Christine.

_Oh, God, please keep her safe. Wherever she is, let her be safe…_

…

…

A sharp rapping on her door abruptly pulled Meg out of her prayer. Without waiting for a response, Lissette, Marie, and Julie came tumbling in, all trying to squeeze their way through the door at once.

Marie bounded across the room and plopped heavily onto the bed next to Meg. "Time to go, sleepy-head! Brush-up rehearsals today, don't want to be late! Where's Christine; she didn't answer when we knocked. Hey, when'd you get these sheets? We don't have any this nice upstairs, where'd you get them?"

With yet another sigh at her friend's incessant chattering, Meg lowered one hand, keeping the other to prop her head up. "From the prop closet. You can check later and see if there are any more, if you like."

"Well, I think I will. It gets cold up there, and the winter's only just beginning…"

Meg noticed that Lissette was peering at her, her exotically slanted eyes narrowing in concern as she leaned forward to examine her friend. She cut smoothly through Marie's babble. "You must look terrible under all that makeup, don't you, Meg? Are you feeling well?"

Meg was taken aback. Trust Lissette, who had never stepped out of the dormitories (or anyone's room, for that matter) without several layers of makeup to enhance her natural beauty, to be the first to notice her façade.

"I didn't sleep well last night," Meg said, shrugging.

"Oh, really?" Lissette said, a knowing note in her voice.

Meg gave her a severe look, and Lissette laughed.

"You look far too much like your mother when you do that."

Julie, who hadn't been able to say anything so far, quietly repeated her twin's question. "Where's Christine?"

Lissette was still giggling. "Maybe _she_ didn't sleep well last night either…"

Marie jumped in with enthusiasm. "I heard the new _patron_, that Viscount, asking after her last night in the corridor. Maybe…" She fell silent at Meg's glare, but Lissette only laughed harder.

"Christine is very ill, if you must know," Meg said coldly, annoyed by their loud noises. They were making her head start to hurt.

That quieted them quickly, save for Julie's soft "Oh, no."

Meg nodded. "The Viscount did speak with her last night, _and_ invited her to dinner, but she felt too poorly to go out. After he left, she became _very_ ill – stomach, head, everything. She was so bad that I had to go get Mother, and we almost called Doctor Liber, but we assumed it was just all of the day's excitement, and that she had made herself ill with the great stress of it all. She's resting at a friend of Mother's in the city, but I don't know if she'll be back in time for any more of the performances."

"Oh, that's _terrible_!" Marie and Julie exclaimed, seconded by Lissette.

"I do hope she can make it back in time!" Julie added.

_So do I_, Meg thought desperately.

"Are you going to tell the new managers, et le director?" Marie inquired.

"Maman will," Meg assured her. "She's going to see what it'll take to bring Carlotta back for the rest of the run."

Three groans echoed Meg's sentiments exactly.

"I know." She sighed, and pushed herself off of the bed. "Well, we shouldn't be late. Andiamo," she said, using one of Carlotta's favorite phrases in honor of her imminent return.

More groans followed as the four girls exited the room.

…

As soon as they entered the backstage area, Meg was confronted by the two new managers, closely followed by her mother. The other young women fled at the approaching sight of them.

"You are the young woman who knows what has happened to Miss Daae?" Monsieur Firmin boomed, his broad frame looming over Meg imposingly. "Giry, yes?"

Meg curtsied, blue eyes briefly meeting her mother's for reassurance. "Oui, monsieur." She would say no more until asked to speak.

"Is it true she has fallen ill?" M Andre asked.

Meg's curtsey to him included the smallest of smiles. He, at least, seemed concerned about Christine's well being. "Oui, monsieur. Very ill. I—" but she stopped, not wanting to overstep her boundaries. There had been no way yet to learn how strict the new managers would be about ballet girls remembering their place.

At a smiling nod from M Andre and an anxious sigh and gesture from M Firmin, Meg continued. "I was called to her room after the Viscount visited with her, just in time to watch her be very sick. She was shaking, and very hot, and we – Maman and I – thought that the best thing for her would be to get away from the Opera House until she recovers."

"I have sent her to an old acquaintance of mine in the city," Madame Giry cut in, drawing the pressure of the managers' stare off her daughter. "She will be safe there until she is ready to perform."

"It's just as well," M Firmin muttered, turning to his shorter companion. "If the newspapers get a hold of the news that she has disappeared, it could be disastrous for business!" A calculating gleam appeared in his sharp grey eyes, and his brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Then again, a little mystery and intrigue never hurt attendance at all…"

M Andre ignored his partner, used to his incessant financial scheming. His kindly face was reddening in tension as he turned in supplication to Madame Giry. "But what shall we do now, Madame? We have no star!"

"I do not believe Madame Guidichelli has fallen ill," the ballet mistress reminded him in her most severe tone.

Messrs Andre and Firmin looked shocked. "The Senora? Eh, we, we couldn't…"

Madame Giry managed to look severely down her nose at the pair, despite the fact that M Firmin was a head taller than she.

Still nervous, Andre looked up at Firmin. "We…we could…"

Firmin looked thoughtful, calculating. "Yes, we could…"

Daringly, Meg risked an impudent whisper in the nearby ear of M Andre. "I recommend a bribe."

The red-faced manager nodded absently. "Yes, yes, certainly…"

And the pair wondered off, already deep in conversation about how best to draw la Carlotta back to their stage.

The ladies Giry watched after them and sighed, identical feelings of relief and regret washing over them.

"Ah, well," Madame Giry said wistfully, clapping her daughter on the shoulder. "We should get practicing." And the pair wandered over to where the rest of the girls had congregated, stretching or talking in hushed tones.

Madame Giry tapped the stage floor loudly with her cane, and every ballerina already not on her feet leapt upright embarrassedly.

"As you may have already heard," she began, with a severe glance at Meg's three closest companions, "Christine Daae has fallen ill, and is unlikely to be joining us again tonight." No sounds of surprise greeted this announcement, so it was obvious that the news had already been spread. "Even though_ Signora Guidichelli_," her tone did little to hide her poor opinion of the ill-mannered diva, "will most likely be returning to us, we will follow the same steps as we performed yesterday evening."

She paused, and glanced approvingly around at the ballet girls. Her girls. "You did very well last night, _mes filles_," she said, pride tinting her voice. "There were very few mistakes, and I could not have asked for harder work in light of yesterday's recasting. I am very proud of each and every one of you."

The girls turned to each other, smiling and speechless; the younger, still-in-training girls bouncing up and down in excitement. This rare praise made all their endless hours of hard work worthwhile. Even the curvaceous la Sorelli glowed inwardly at this praise from her instructor, though she did her best not to show it.

"However, there are still a few corrections that need to be dealt with. In Act I, Scene II, when Elisa's watching Hannibal leave from her balcony, Meg and Lissette, you two need to move right and back a little bit. Don't be downstage from Elisa, you blocked her from a few of the Grand Tier boxes in that scene last night…"

…

And so it went, with minor corrections and run-throughs of dance numbers, until nine-thirty. Then M Reyer took over, putting the orchestra on break and rehearsing lines with the girls where he thought they had been unclear. At periodic intervals, M DuGaulle would swagger in, a voluptuous blonde woman hanging on his arm whom everyone _knew _wasn't his wife, to offer some "constructive criticism" that either the ballet mistress or the conductor had already covered. His visits only served to make those running or in the rehearsal more annoyed, but he was always too absorbed in his companion to notice the exasperated looks and occasional dirty gestures thrown his way. However, he swept through only rarely, and the brush-up rehearsal ran exceedingly smoothly.

Until suddenly, predictably, horribly, the grand gold-embossed oak doors to the Grand Foyer were thrown open, and Signora Carlotta Guidichelli stormed in, tailed by Signor Piangi, two seamstresses, Carlotta's white poodle, a wigmaker, and several other lackeys whose purpose was not immediately determinable.

As the doors banged heavily off their braces (quite a feat, since Carlotta was a small woman and the doors were nearly twice her height and made of six-inch-thick solid oak, designed with thick golden spirals), Carlotta paused, backlit in the shaft of light spilling in from the windowed Foyer. In her enormous fluffy pink wrap, voluminous pink silk skirts, and gigantic pink-feathered hat, the diva made an imposing silhouette in the doorway. As she made her sweeping way up the center aisle between the scarlet velvet seats, followed by her small crowd of followers, Messrs Andre and Firmin appeared in the sunlit doorway, hurrying after the irate soprano.

The attention of everyone onstage was pulled from the rehearsal as the group approached Carlotta stomped up the stage right staircase, the vicious step of her pink high-heels muffled by the scarlet carpet. Her heavily make-upped face, as beautiful as it was meant to be, was twisted into an ugly sneer, her eyebrows drawn together, her lips twisting, her eyes narrowed to malicious slits. Her elaborate, rigidly set curls bounced off her pearl-embroidered pink bodice as she flounced up the stairs, viciously wrenching her long-nailed grip on her skirts from side to side with each step. Most in her path fled upon meeting her fiery glare, but she was quick to roughly shove aside any ballerina foolish or slow enough not to immediately vacate her path.

"Signora!" M Firmin was shouting after her, "Signora, please!"

Carlotta angrily tossed her curls over her shoulders with a shake of her head, never speaking or slowing.

"Signora," M Andre echoed, struggling to keep up on his shorter legs, "Signora, you are our star! We need you! Your public needs you!"

Carlotta whirled, nearly causing her wigmaker and a flustered-looking seamstress to step on her skirts. She shot them the briefest of contemptuous glances before addressing the managers as they hurried up the stairs after her.

"My _public_ does not _need_ me," she hissed, her Italian accent and rage twisting her words nearly beyond recognition. "My _public_ would not know true talent if someone threw it in their stupid faces, the fools. All they want is that horrible croaking _crow_, _Christine Daae_." The Swedish name was the worst of curses through Carlotta's painted lips. "They want that glorified whore, that _chorus girl_." She ignored the way everyone around her stiffened and drew breath dangerously, oblivious in her anger. "They do not deserve my voice! I have worked for months to prepare a work of beauty for my _public_, and yet you replace me on a moment's notice with that impudent child!"

Meg was so angry at the slights on her friend that her duties to the Opera were momentarily forgotten. She was a moment from reminding Carlotta coldly that it was _she_ who had walked out on them the day before, nearly throwing the entire production into chaos and ruin, but her mother's restraining hand on her wrist prevented her from doing anything rash. They _needed_ Carlotta, as much as they hated the fact.

Messrs Andre and Firmin exchanged glances that said much the same. "But, Signora," M Firmin cut in smoothly, "Miss Daae was merely a temporary replacement – she could never compare to your…overwhelming presence."

"Parisian nobles are enchanted by the _nouveau_," M Andre continued, "but is the true artists that retain their support and love…for five seasons," he reminded her gently.

Carlotta was placated, but her show of anger barely lessened.

"Why should I waste my talent on those who cannot tell the difference between a true artist like myself, and a presumptuous _ballerina_ like _Christine Daae_? Why should they deserve my effort, my time, my voice?"

Meg looked up, hopeful that another backdrop might be making its swift way down towards this blaspheming diva, but apparently their convenient Phantom was otherwise occupied.

M Firmin shot a significant look at M Andre, and the shorter man drew a thin square box from inside his suit jacket.

Carlotta's interest was instantly peaked. "What is that?" she demanded.

Andre opened the box to reveal the most stunning set of diamond earrings and necklace that any of them had ever seen. Carlotta's gasp of delight managed to drown out those from the surrounding chorus girls, all of whom were captivated by the enormous (and _expensive_) bribe.

The diva scurried forward and snatched the box from Andre's hands, fingering the jewels lovingly. With great difficulty, owing to the long pink talon at the end of each finger, Carlotta attempted to remove the jewelry from its container. After several moments of struggling unsuccessfully, she thrust the box at the nearest ballerina – Meg.

Meg automatically accepted the box, and stared at it. Oh, God, she hated this woman. But every eye was on her, and they did _need_ Carlotta, detestable as she may be.

_Just think of the Opera_, she told herself as she delicately removed the beautifully cut stones from their velvet-lined box. Jealousy flared up inside her as she was reminded of the remarkable beauty of the necklace, and how wasted the time and effort spent on the flawless gems was on this ill-tempered…

She resisted the temptation to tighten the metal band around Carlotta's neck until the diamonds snapped apart and ruin this degrading bribe. But she forced herself to gently clasp the necklace behind the shorter woman's neck, careful not to catch any of her dark curls in the clasp, and lightly placed the earrings in her manicured, outstretched hand.

_They're hideous, gaudy things anyway_, she told herself bitterly, hating the sight of the stones around the diva's slender, olive-skinned throat, the way they made a sparkling V-shape that drew attention to the ample filling of her low-cut pink bodice, _everything_ about her.

Carlotta was immediately appeased by the glittering bribe around her neck. She flashed the sweating managers a smile as sparkling as her new diamonds, and gave a simpering, sickly-sweet laugh.

"Alors," she said, too-sweet. "I shall be in my dressing room. Send Madame DuLevre to me if she needs to…refit any of _my _dresses." She gave on last all-encompassing, contented smile to the stage at large, and then flounced off backstage, taking the shortest route to her large, treasure-filled dressing room.

"After all," her accented tones floated back to them, "the show must go on!"

**…**

**…**

**Sorry this took so long, and isn't that interesting. I'm taking a class at my local college, and it takes up all of my mornings, and we're adding a room onto our house, so I have to do a lot of construction-type work. So, I don't have much time to write.**

**Right now, though I have a case of strep throat and have felt miserable, and I haven't been able to bear looking at the glowing computer screen.**

**However, I have finally gotten all my crap up on my DeviantArt page. Yay.**

**Anyways, thanks for sticking with me. I love each and every one of my readers, even if they don't review.**

**Paige Turner**


	15. Les Freres de Fops

**That's it. Next time, if you don't review, I don't love you. I know the last chapter was boring, but come on. At least tell me so! **

Anyway, enter the de Chagny boys. I'm not one for Raoul bashing, though I've nothing against it. I'm just trying to make everyone seem like a real person, which means giving some of the characters more depth than they're usually associated with.

**And in case anyone's forgotten (though I think it's silly to insist on doing this) I don't own PotO. I barely own anything remotely related. I own multiple soundtracks, one poster, and one copy of the Leroux novel. My dad went to Phoenix on a business trip and saw the traveling Broadway production and didn't even bring me any lousy souvenirs. Hamn. Anyway, enough grousing. **

**Here you are. I was rather DISCOURAGED by the lack of reviews (the COMPLETE lack of reviews), which meant I was not very motivated to write. If that's your plan, review and tell me. Say anything. Say how your feet smell, for all I care, but review. It makes me feel better to know someone's out there, bothering to read my crap. **

**Yes, I know I sound desperate. But that's fine by me, if it gets the job done. **

**Oh, and I'm over my strep throat, save for this horrid cough. That's why I'm updating. **

… 

**Chapter 13**

**Les Freres Fops**

And so the show did go on. Every night that week, Chalumeau's _Hannibal_ was performed in front of a packed auditorium, and every morning, Meg's heart grew heavier as Christine's unexplained absence continued. Since it was assumed that after the second performance, everyone would be used to the run of the show, no more mornings were devoted to rehearsals. This unfortunately left Meg with several hours a day of fretting over her situation, growing angrier and more restless with the helplessness of her situation.

In Christine's absence, Meg's mornings were spent in the company of Lissette, Marie, and Julie. The four girls roamed all over the Opera House, exploring; singing; visiting with other girls, seamstresses, and prop managers; and generally expending their energies in countless girlish fashions. As comforting as the lighthearted antics of her friends usually were, Meg still found her mood growing blacker as the week progressed.

…

But Meg wasn't the only one who found her disposition failing. By the time the weekend had arrived, Philippe, Comte de Changy, had progressed into a thoroughly irritable mood himself.

When his brother Raoul had told him of his season's shore leave before his next expedition, Philippe had been eager to invite the young sailor to stay at their family's vast country estate south of Paris. A bachelor at forty-one, Philippe loved his younger brother dearly, having raised him like a son since their father's death nearly ten years prior, and their mother's eight before that. Since their sisters had wed and begun their own families and little Raoul had joined the French Royal Navy, Philippe had been alone at the de Chagny manor, overseeing the running of the vast Changy fortune and estate. Apart from occasional visits from courtesans or business partners and his large staff of servants, Philippe spent his days alone, and was overjoyed at the prospect of a four-month visit from his younger brother.

The two had gotten along remarkably well during the first few weeks of Raoul's stay. Philippe had been exercising every opportunity to present his dashing youngest sibling to the cream of Parisian society, accompanying him to parties and convincing him to make contributions to the arts – a very popular manner to display one's wealth.

It was this last decision that Philippe now cursed himself for, as he sat at his magnificent oak dining table, using yesterday's _L'Epoque_ to shield from view the young man sitting opposite him who now grated so on his nerves. If he had not pushed Raoul to become a patron of the Opera Populaire, he would never have attended the opening night gala from Philippe's Box. And if he hadn't gone _that night_ – any other night would have been safe, but _that night_ – he would not have taken notice of that absolutely angelic soprano star.

In has annoyance, Philippe straightened the newspaper he was skimming, rustling it irritably. He didn't want to accidentally catch sight of the dreamy face, the shining brown hair, the immaculate navy suit of the young man opposite him.

Raoul simply didn't know how to make use of the opportunities Fate handed him. The girl with the face and body and voice of an angel had been a childhood friend of Raoul's. Philippe remembered the child and her father staying briefly at one of their estates, back before Father had died. Even then the girl had sung like a creature of Heaven, and Raoul was taken with her, for all he was three years her senior. But class and occupation had separated the two young sweethearts, and Philippe had forgotten the Daaes.

It was Raoul's childhood memories that hindered him, Philippe decided. There was no other excuse for his actions – or lack thereof. The girl was a star of a single evening – young, inexperienced. Raoul already had her trust due to their past acquaintance. And yet the young fool hadn't even managed to take her out to dinner!

Philippe sighed in annoyance and rustled his paper again. He himself had spent the night quite comfortably in the company of the infinitely attractive prima ballerina, la Sorelli. If only –

"What's wrong with you, Philippe?" Raoul asked irritably, interrupting his brother's thoughts. All of the sighing and paper-rustling had finally gotten to him, and he watched his elder brother at the head of the table with his handsome face drawn together in annoyance.

Philippe threw his paper down and leaned back in is chair, regarding his brother with yet another sigh.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, my dear brother."

Raoul raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you continue to let thoughts of that Daae woman bother you? So you messed up, missed your chance! Let it go alrea—"

Raoul threw his silver fork down on his brother's fine china with a clatter, his blush evident on his clean-shaven cheeks.

"_That's_ what you think I've been thinking about?" he demanded angrily. "_That's_ all you think of her?"

Philippe was surprised. "Of course," he said plainly, watching his brother open his mouth wordlessly in shock. He sighed again "So you two shared some special moments in your childhood. All the same, the girl is just a chorus girl – a ballerina! You know what they're like –"

"No!" Raoul shouted. He did want to hear Philippe talk of her that way, it made him angry. "You don't know what she's like! She's different than _la Sorelli_," he added with a disdainful sneer.

"Oh, _please_," Philippe said with an equally disdainful glance, "you can't possibly think she's remained the same pure, innocent little child that she was when you knew her ten years ago! Mon Dieu, Raoul, I thought joining the navy would knock some sense into you, boy!"

"Christine's a _good girl_, Philippe," Raoul insisted, trying to talk over his brother.

"That's the problem, Raoul, she's not a girl any more!"

"A good _woman_ then!"

"Yes," Philippe agreed scathingly, "a very good woman, it would seem. Tell me Raoul, are you willingly this ignorant, this _blind_? Or have you simply forgotten about _the man's voice_ you heard issuing from her dressing room?"

Raoul stiffened, and Philippe smiled.

"Her friend said she had fallen ill," Raoul said, slowly and deliberately. "May-maybe she had already called for the Opera's doctor…"

_Do doctors usually demand that their patients love them?_ A soft voice, very like his brother's, hissed in his mind.

_I probably misheard_, Raoul mentally shot back at the voice. _The girl didn't hear anything at all, perhaps I—_

The other voice cut off his pitiful mental excuses. _Don't fool yourself, Raoul. You can't cling to your memories of the innocent Little Lotte you once knew_.

Raoul slammed a fist onto the oak table, bare knuckles denting the glossy veneer.

"I won't believe that of her," he told his brother coldly. "You can spend all day telling me what I should have done with her, how I should think of her, whatever you like. I won't believe that Christine has sunk to the level of the whore you think she is, and I won't be one to treat her that way. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Philippe raised one eyebrow as Raoul angrily threw his wadded-up napkin onto his unfinished meal, and made to leave the table.

"Think what you like, dear brother. Where are you going?" He had to raise his voice for the question, as Raoul was already starting down the hallway.

"To Mass," Raoul said, shrugging on his coat.

"You'll be early."

"I'm going to the church nearest the Opera Populaire," Raoul said, sticking his head back in the doorway to bid his brother farewell. "I will find her."

Philippe only smiled as Raoul exited, chuckling slightly to himself as the front door slammed shut.

…

**Sorry this was short, it's really more just setup for the next chapter. An insight into the characters of the boys de Chagny. Sorry. And I needed to complain about the lackage of reviews. So, just review with "Wow, that was boring," if you have to, but let me know you're reading. **

**Okay, so I should have made it longer, but it's an okay place to stop before the next chap, which I've gotten three pages of typed up already. So…whatever. My headache's coming back. **

**Later. **

**Paige Turner. **

**P.S.: Review. **


	16. An Article and Action

**Okay, I'm sorry for ranting. I shouldn't get upset about a lackage of reviews. I just missed them so much! But it was a bit uncalled for. **

**Anyway, here's what I promised you. Just in case you were optimistic enough to hope for one, though, I won't update for the next week 'cause I'll be on vacation with my family, and won't be able to type my stuff up on the computer even if I do get the time to write it, which I bet I will. **

**Anyway, here. No Erik in this chapter either, but he can't be in all of them. He's off with Christine right now, and can't be bothered. – But really, I've got plot to do, and all will happen in due time, I promise. Just bear with me for a bit. **

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By the time Sunday came, Meg was so upset that she was even unable to concentrate during Mass. She sat beside her mother and Monsieur Reyer, trying her best to concentrate on the preacher's words rather than the empty space to her right, which was normally filled by a penitent Christine Daae. However, all throughout the service, unbidden images of that dark corridor flitted across her mind, and twice she was late in the congregation's responses to the preacher's prayers.

After communion was taken and the congregation dispersed, Lissette, Marie, and Julie invited Meg to join them in a stroll around the Bois, and maybe a little shopping. Meg reluctantly agreed – maybe it would distract her to have something to do. Anything to get the helpless repetition of _I've got to do _something, out of her head.

Madame Giry frowned when Meg told her of their plans, her black dress and the black feathers of her hat glinting in the morning sunlight on the wide stone steps of the chapel. "Do you have an escort?" she wanted to know.

"Well, no, Mama," Meg admitted, slightly defensively. "But there's the four of us, and it's broad daylight out –" In fact, Meg was squinting badly in the bright sparkle of the sunlight, so rarely did she venture outdoors these days.

Mme Giry cut in. "I would really feel safer if you had an escort, cherie."

Meg interrupted her mother with a sigh. "Oh, Maman! We're seventeen! We can take care of ourselves!"

"Still, I don't think –"

"It would be my pleasure, Madame, to escort your daughter and her friends on their outing."

Both women jumped at the new, rich man's voice, and spun to determine its source.

"Monsieur le Viscount!" Mme Giry breathed, and mother and daughter sank into their deepest curtseys, years of ballet practice for both showing their effects.

Indeed, Raoul de Chagny was standing several steps beloe them, immaculately handsome in a perfectly tailored deep navy suit offset by golden buttons on the jacket and a golden-embroidered navy cravat around his neck. The sunlight glittered through his shining shoulder-length brown hair. His blue eyes shown kindly out of his even-complexioned, clean-shaven face. He was _incredibly_ handsome, Meg thought, and if he had not been of an impossibly higher social status than she, she would have been jealous of Christine for warranting his interest.

"Please, don't," Raoul said, the same kindness and good humor he had displayed on opening day earlier that week evident in his rich tone. So long in the navy had gotten him out of the habit of being bowed and curtseyed to every time he introduced himself. "I wished to speak with your daughter again anyway, Madame, and I would hate for the girls to be denied their shopping companion." He gestured to where Marie, Julie, and Lissette waited at eh bottom of the stone stairway, watching them anxiously (and eyeing the Viscount appraisingly).

Madame Giry seemed thrilled at the young man's proposal. Meg thought that perhaps she was harboring some mad idea that the noble would take some romantic interest in her. She could practically see her mother's mind leaping to the prospect of a respectable marriage for her, and she fought hard not to roll her eyes and sigh.

Instead, Meg gave the Viscount her most sparkling smile, and thanked God that she had especially dressed up for Mass that morning. She would hardly have dared to inflict her lowly presence upon a noble in anything less that immaculate hair, makeup, and clothing, and she believed that she had achieved that state that morning.

Again attempting to distract her mind from her helplessness before the nightmares and worries about Christine, Meg had spent an hour that morning on her appearance, trying on dress after dress and playing endlessly with her hair. Finally, she had decided on one of her favorite dresses, a full-skirted, long-sleeved, wide-necked gown that looked silvery grey indoors and shimmered between pale purples and blues in the sunlight. The fabric was a cheap, slightly stretchy alternative to satin that always felt cool, even in the heat of the summer. It looked slightly too large on her thin frame, but it managed to cling flatteringly to her chest and arms. Plus, it looked good with her lighter cloak, a dull grey wool that would further mute the dress while inside the church, and her grey wool hat with the silver veil, which she wore every Sunday during Mass.

Now Meg removed the cloak and hat, shaking her exceptionally straight blonde curtain of hair free from the confines of the drab coverings. The thin material of her dress seemed to glitter in the brilliant sunlight, though it did little to stop the light breeze that blew over the staircase. Meg handed her discarded garments to her mother to take back to the Opera, preferring looking her best to staying warm – an unusual choice for her. But it wasn't every day one was invited to meet with a real noble, and Meg felt it was her duty not to embarrass the kind young man.

Graciously accepting Raoul's outstretched hand, Meg stepped lightly and quickly down the stairs. As they reached the bottom, she was literally scraped off of Raoul's arm by Lissette, who latched herself on in her place with hardly a glance back at her displaced friend. Raoul looked surprised, but the expression quickly faded into a kind smile.

"Please, ladies, allow me to speak to my driver for a moment." He left them briefly to meet a tall closed carriage bearing the de Chagny crest, and Meg heard him instruct the driver to meet him at the Populaire in two or three hours. He returned with a beaming smile.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the street with his free hand while Lissette took hold of the other.

Meg walked behind him with the twins, enjoying the bright winter sunshine. Being outdoors was really alright in small doses, she thought, pushing a mass of hair out of her face. It was a lovely day to be strolling through the shop-lined square with friends. However, the reminders of the one friend who was absent still darkened the day's light.

With a cry of delight, Julie seized Meg's hand and dragged her to the large window display of a clothing sdtore, gazing avidly at a heavily embroidered yellow bodice. Yellow was Julie's favorite color.

"Isn't it lovely, Meg?" she brethed.

"Yes, for springtime," Meg said appraisingly. "It's really not the season."

Julie agreed, but proceeded to drag Meg towards the door. "Let's go see what else they have!" she said, calling out to their companions in an uncharacteristic excitement. It seemed the sunlight was affecting her too, Meg mused.

Raoul seemed uneasy at the prospect of entering such a feminine shop. "I…think I'll just wait here," he said, his discomfort plain upon his handsome face.

All four girls laughed at him, a bright, happy music. "I'll stay with you," Meg offered. She had caught the significant look the noble had shot her as he spoke of staying outside, and was curious to know what he wanted.

The other three girls exchanged knowing smiles at Meg's proposal, and, laughing ever more gaily, entered the shop.

"Don't be long," Meg called after them, but her words were lost in the merry tinkle of bells over the shop door as it closed behind the girls. She turned to Raoul.

"Walk with me," was all he said.

The two strolled casually towards the center of the square, where low iron benches lined the circular chariot path. Raoul bought a copy of that morning's _L'Epoque_ from a vendor pushing a cart. Meg followed him patiently to one of the benches and sat, waiting expectantly for him to speak. When he did not, she spoke up hesitantly.

"You wished to speak with me, Monsieur?" she asked politely.

Raoul stared at the unopened newspaper in his lap, glancing briefly at Meg. "Please, mademoiselle, call me Raoul."

Meg nodded, but merely looked at him expectantly. This was obviously very difficult for the poor young man. After several moments, during which Raoul stared blankly at the front page of his folded newspaper, Meg asked, "Is it about Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Christine?" Raoul said, startled. "Yes, yes it is." He looked uncomfortable. "Do you know where I could find her? I mean, I know she's ill, or was, but I can't stop thinking about her!" Damn. He hadn't meant to say that. "I mean – did she tell you that we knew each other growing up?"

Meg nodded kindly. "She was thrilled when she thought you were our new patron. She couldn't wait to see her dear childhood sweetheart again."

Raoul was stunned, and thrilled! His heart soared! She had thought of him, been excited to see him!

But she had not recognized him, she said, when he met her in her dressing room. Something wasn't right, and he told Meg as such.

She shrugged. "You know she was very ill, and under a lot of stress. She may not have recognized you in all her excitement," she offered, by way of explanation.

Raoul nodded, and leaned closer to her. "May I see her?" he asked, his voice low and conspiratorial. "I…I know she's ill, but I must see her. Where is she now?"

Meg shrugged, hiding her annoyance at being asked the very question she longed to know the answer to herself. "I'm not sure, sir. She is with a friend of my mother's in the city until she gets better, at which time she will return to the Opera house." _I hope_, she added mentally in a prayer.

Raoul looked extremely disappointed.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I know no more than you do."

He nodded, snapped open his newspaper, and began to read. The pair sat in silence, Raoul engrossed in skimming his paper, Meg calmly regarding the other inhabitants of the square. Couples and groups strolled happily in the sunshine, laughing or pointing in shop windows. Meg's forehead was furrowed as she watched them, whether from the brightness or her souring mood she didn't know, but she no longer felt carefree and light. God, she was worried about Christine.

As if on cue with her thought, Raoul spoke up. "There's an article here about the Opera," he said, not looking at Meg but turning the newspaper in her direction. "And it mentions Christine…"

Meg leaned close and read the article over his shoulder.

_The arrival of new managers M. Richard Firmin and M. Giles Andre, recently top army suppliers in the scrap metal business, has been welcomed in by the enormous success of the Opera Populaire's latest production, Chalumeau's _Hannibal. _This epic tale of war and love is a massive undertaking for director_ _M. Jean-Pierre DuGaulle, requiring the largest cast of any production this year. But no member of the cast has captured the heart of Paris so thoroughly as young singer Mlle Christine Daae, a stunning young soprano who shocked the audience last Monday, when reigning diva Mme. Carlotta Guidichelli was unable attend the gala performance. Mlle Daae brought the light and sound of Heaven itself to the Populaire's stage, performing the leading role of Elisa with unprecedented beauty and talent. Her soaring voice lifted hearts and souls with unimaginable talent and innocence and purity, drawing her listeners into her very soul as she sang. Unfortunately, Mlle Daae has not been seen since the gala performance, and five-season lead la Carlotta has resumed her role with her traditional exquisite voice and commanding stage presence. _

_One wonders about the whereabouts of this rising star, Mlle Daae. Manager M Andre has informed our reporter that Mlle Daae is on leave for her health, as the excitement of the unexpected triumph was too much for the delicate young singer, whose greatest prior achievement was playing Siebel opposite la Carlotta's sensuous Mauguerite in _Faust_. An ordinary member of the ballet and chorus, Mlle's grace and beauty were often overshadowed by the exceedingly sumptuous la Sorelli, prima ballerina……_

Meg's eyes unfocused as the article went on to praise the stars of the performance, and she was surprised to feel a strong prickling sensation that told her she was tearing up. It wasn't fair. Her life's dream was to be praised in an article just like this, and once again Christine had achieved it first. Oh, it was her dream, her desire, her _hidden_ desire to be famous, though no one would know it by looking at her. Her pessimistic nature and quiet complacency were often to hide her disappointment that nothing as miraculous as Christine's chance at fame would ever happen to her, and she would always remain in obscurity, a too-tall, plain-faced chorus girl with a quiet voice and shy steps. But Christine wanted for no fame as she did! She sought only to learn, for love of music! Oh, God, it wasn't _fair_!

"Hey, Meg, are you alright?"

Lissette's cheerful voice startled Meg out of her thoughts, and she hurriedly wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said, too quickly. She jumped up, smoothing out her skirts and sleeves with a nervous air. Something about the article was making her act very oddly, and her recently arrived friends could tell.

Julie put out a comforting hand. "Meg? Are…"

Meg shied away from the touch. "I – I'm fine. I – I've got to go. I'll see you later." She backed away. "Have fun shopping. It was nice to see you again, Monsieur." With a final curtsey to the Viscount, Meg turned and fled towards the Opera House, whose gilded eaves were just visible over the tops of the nearer buildings.

Raoul and the girls all looked at each other in shock. _What was that about?_ they all wondered.

…

As she ran through the Bois, Meg ignored the odd looks shot her direction by those she cut past. Her long legs stretched easily under her full skirts, giving her an easy, loping pace. Her blonde hair flew unbound behind her, and she was sure she made quite a picture.

Why was she running? She didn't stop to think until she had dashed through the cool stone passage leading to the Opera's stables, gone through a hidden back door, ran through two twisting back corridors, and arrived in her own dark, cool dressing room. She threw herself face down on the bed without bothering to light a lamp, burying her face in a pillow.

Why _was_ she running? What about that article caused her heart to ache and her eyes to fill with tears and her stomach to twist? Was it jealousy? Was that it? Was she _jealous_?

Yes, Meg decided, she was sick with jealousy. Her best friend had suddenly achieved the talent and fame that Meg had desired all her life, while Meg was stuck in her ordinary routine, covering for Christine's absence. _It isn't fair! _she thought, slamming a fist into her pillow.

She felt like a child. _A truculent, spoiled little child whose sister got the doll she wanted_, she told herself callously. _Quit being so weak!_ she thought angrily. _Christine could be in great danger _right now_, and you're laying around moping that she got her name in the paper and you didn't! What kind of friend are you?_

She sat up, angrily wiping her eyes. She was being inexcusably weak. She couldn't just sit around while Christine was in danger! She had to do something!

She leapt off her bed with a new sense of purpose which left no room for childish jealousy in her heart. It could not, however, push away all feelings of fear and dread at what she was about to do, where she knew she had to go.

If she wanted to affect Christine's return, she would have to go straight to her captor, the most feared inhabitant of the Opera Garnier.

The Phantom of the Opera.

…

**As you can probably guess, more Erik in the next chapter. I promise. **

**Later,**

**Paige Turner**


	17. A Failed Fight for Freedom

**Hello readers. I have returned from my vacation, during which I was able to write one chapter/two posts. So, depending on how many reviews I get, I'll put the next chap up once I get it all typed in. **

**And I'm just gonna warn you now, so you don't hate me later: I can't write Susan Kay's Christine. I'd love to be able to, but she just doesn't fit. But in my opinion, that is the best Christine ever written. But I can't write her. **

**Chapter 14**

**A Failed Freedom**

Meg wasn't very sure how one went hunting a Ghost, but she had an idea of where she could start, retrieving the spare key to Christine's room from a dresser drawer, Meg strode next door with an air of determination. Once inside, she locked the door behind her and slipped the small brass key into her pocket. She didn't want to be disturbed.

Her heart accelerated as she crossed the room, crushing fallen flower petals underfoot. She lit a small oil lamp from the bedside table, the silence pressing in on her ears in the darkness. She paused before the large mirror and took several deep breaths. Her heart pounded in her chest at the knowledge that she was willingly entering the domain of the Phantom as specifically ordered not to, for the sole purpose of finding and confronting that terrifying man.

"I have completely lost my mind," Meg told her reflection matter-of-factly. The grey-garbed girl in the mirror looked like a lost ghost, large dark eyes wide and frightened, the flickering shadows thrown across her face by the single light giving her an unearthly quality. She didn't argue.

"Yeah, I thought so," Meg said with a sigh. The sound of her own voice was small comfort in the silence. "Well, I supposed I should get started, before I lose my nerve." And with that, she pressed the false knot on the mirror frame, flinching slightly at the rush of cool air that poured through the opening, and stepped into the dark passage.

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Fifteen minutes later, Meg Giry was hopelessly lost. Each black corridor looked exactly like every other, save for the twice she had encountered dead ends. She had lost count of how many songs she had sung in her trembling voice, reliving forgotten operas to fight back her fear. She was continuously tempted to just sit on the rough stone floor, bury her head in her knees, and sleep, but she didn't fancy being found so defenseless by a passing Phantom.

Despair began to wash over her. She would never find her way out! She would die, trapped in some hidden corridor, rotting away undiscovered until the Phantom stumbled upon her decomposing corpse –

_Stop it!_ she thought angrily to herself. "You're not going to die," she said aloud, clenching her fists in determination.

"Are you so very sure of that?"

Meg yelped and spun, searching for that beautiful yet terrifying voice, so laced with anger and annoyance that it was nearly a blow on her ears. She clutched at her oil lamp with both hands, in an effort to avoid repeating her twice-made mistake of dropping her light upon meeting the Phantom, and burned the palm of her left hand on the lamp's glass shield. She swore, as much from the heart-stopping fright as from the pain in her hand.

There was a shift in the shadows at the corner of her vision, and Meg spun to face the movement. A tall, black-garbed figure emerged into the very edge of her circle of light – a frightfully thin, spectral shape in formal evening wear, topped by the terrifying with mask Meg was nearly accustomed to encountering in the darkness. Somewhere in the frightened recesses of her mind, she noticed that the mask was topped by a black fedora, which was tilted roguishly forward, so that the eyeholes of the mask peered darkly from the shadow of its brim.

Meg took several frightened steps backwards as the man advanced slowly, his step deliberate and menacing.

"I have told you," he said in a hauntingly beautiful tenor voice, "twice now, not to venture into my domain. I am not accustomed to repeating myself." Meg gave a start as her back made contact with the very solid wooden wall, leaving no more room for retreat as the man continued to advance into her sphere of light. "Most do not live to disobey me even once, and yet here you are, _twice_ ignoring my instructions."

With a sudden, nearly invisible movement, one leather-gloved hand shot out and dashed the lamp from Meg's trembling hands. It crashed to the floor with a shatter of glass, and the oil spread into a burning puddle, which flickered below and around the pair like the impending fires of Hell. Accompanying the smash of glass were the twin _thud_s of Erik's hands hitting the wall either side of Meg's thin shoulders. He leaned his face close to hers, twin golden eyes narrowed behind the mask, regarding her petrified face.

"Give me one good reason why you should be allowed to walk away from me a third time." Meg half-expected him to add something to the effect of "unharmed," but she quickly realized that he meant "to walk away at all."

"B-" Meg stuttered, and licked her lips. He was much too close. "Because, i-if two girls go missing in a week, s-somebody may become suspicious."

Erik laughed. Pathetic. The girl was so terrified, he was surprised she was still standing. Why did she have to meddle? He didn't _want_ to kill her, oddly enough. Normally, the idea of removing such a potential obstacle would cause him no pangs of guilt, but ever since…her…he could not bring himself to take the life of a young woman. He knew the pain of those left behind…

If only his Angel hadn't insisted on upholding those silly beliefs of hers! Her faith in an Angel shattered, trapped below ground in a veritable Hell, she still insisted that he retrieve her Bible and prayerbook for her perusal. For despite the vast collection of books in his library, Erik refused to amass books of religion, and was now forced to acquiesce to his – his _guest_'s requests by returning to her room to collect her holy books.

The errand in itself, and the confrontation before it, had already put Erik into a foul mood. Not that he had – once again! – found this meddlesome child, his temperament could only be described as black.

"You little fool," he said bitterly, leaning in impossibly close, "women disappear on the streets of Paris every day, and no one notices or cares. Why should they care about one little ballet rat?"

"Not a ballet rat," Meg breathed, her mind fogged by that voice and the close proximity of the mask. "A diva. A rising, surprise star who enchanted Paris a week ago with the voice of an Angel. All of Paris knows she's missing by now—"

"_What!_"

"—It was in the paper. I've told everyone that she's ill, but that story won't hold forever – it only works if eventually she returns, well again. You must release her!"

She cut off with a wince as Erik's hands, bones sharp even through the black leather of his gloves, gripped her shoulders tightly. He shook her slightly against the wall as he hissed at her, "Do not presume to tell me what I must do." He knew she only said it out of concern for her friend, but he did not appreciate her impertinent interference.

"If I were you, I would worry more about my own safety, and that of those close to me."

Meg gasped in fear. "What are you going to do?" she stammered, eyes growing ever wider and darker. "Please, please, sir, I only –"

"Meddled in affairs that did not concern you," Erik cut in smoothly. "And there are consequences to every action that must be paid." He leaned in even closer, intimidating her with his presence as he towered over her. Again Meg wondered if he would rape her as punishment – as she said, no one would know she was gone for quite some time.

Erik knew what the girl was thinking. The way she hunched forward ever so slightly as he closed in on her, the fear in her eyes. He put one gloved hand on her cheek, and slowly ran it down her neck, over a shoulder, and down her arm, enjoying the shiver that ran through her body even as he was repulsed by what she expected of him. Why was he always expected to use women, as though they were not people, with feelings and minds of their own? It disgusted him as much now as it had twenty years ago in Persia.

"No," he said, as though ruefully changing his mind. "You may yet be of use to me," he told the trembling child, bringing his hand back up her arm to play in her loose blonde hair. "Do not fear for your honor," he said bitterly, "or your life – at the moment. But do not think that this repeated infraction will go unpunished."

"What are you going to do?" Though still fearful, the treat to others and not herself gave Meg's voice a hard edge.

In all honesty, Erik didn't know in what way this interesting little ballerina would be of use to him. Besides, he was on an errand, and he didn't feel safe leaving his Angel alone in his home for long stretches of time. It was time to draw this meeting to a close.

When he next spoke, he laced his voice with all of the hypnotic, mind-possessing power he possessed. He hoped the girl's fear would be enough to allow him to cloud her mind; the strong willed could resist his voice especially well when angry.

"You will learn soon enough, my inquisitive dear," he said. He saw her blink as though confused or in pain, and smiled. He slowly began to run his hand along the wall behind her. "You cannot learn everything as soon as you wish. I promise you, though, we will meet again. And if you do not wish for your situation to worsen beyond what it will already become, for harm to befall your dear mother or those flighty friends of yours, you will do _exactly as I tell you_ the next time we meet." He acted like he would turn from her, then faced her squarely again as though just remembering something he wished to say. "Oh, and, Meg?"

Through the strange fog in her mind, his suddenly casually conversational tone caught her off guard. However, she was so entranced by the beauty of the voice that consciously, she barely noticed the change.

"Y-Yes?" she stammered. She blinked hard in an attempt to clear her head, wondering why she felt as though she would respond in any way he wished if it meant he would continue to speak in that beautiful, enchanting voice.

"_Keep your hand at the level of your eyes."_

And suddenly she was falling, the world was spinning, a pinwheel of light and dark flashed in front of her eyes – and then the ground was rushing up to meet her and she landed heavily on the edge of a strip of crimson carpet that she knew very well.

"Ow!" she said loudly, rolling onto her back so she could cradle her right wrist against her chest. She heard the echo of her cry in the vacant corridor as she stared up at the faint, flickering lights of gas lamps – the kind used in all of the Populaire's back corridors.

For that was where she now found herself, in on of the many first floor corridors that were inevitably littered with unused props as the storerooms either side of them overflowed, or were partially emptied to reach props at the very back. And she had no idea how she got there.

Still lying on her back, Meg covered her face with her hands. She slowly rubbed at her eyes and temples, groaning softly as she tried to explain what had just happened. Her head felt heavy and full, as though she had been drugged, and she suddenly felt very nauseous.

Knowing it would be dangerous to be sick in that position, Meg reluctantly scrambled back against the bare patch of wall behind her, sitting with her back braced against the smooth wood paneling. Her spine ground painfully against the wall through the thin material of her dress as she curled forward, hugging her knees to her chest and burying her face in them. Her hair fell around her head in a dimming curtain, blocking out the faint light from the gas lamps. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, and willed her head to stop spinning.

"Zut!" she swore into her skirt. "Zut, zut, zut!" Why couldn't she do anything right? She only wanted to help, to make sure her friend would be returned safely. _But really,_ she asked herself bitterly, _what did you expect to accomplish except for making him mad? He must be a madman, to life under the Opera House and prey on the hopes of a lonely chorus girl, all the while plotting to kidnap her – not the sort of personage one would expect to listen to reason._ All of the same, a small part of her hidden and buried at the back of her mind was sorry for the strange man, powerful and frightening as he was. He must have been terribly lonely, living by himself all these years…no wonder he had seized his chance with Christine…

_No,_ Meg forcefully told that small part of her mind,_ you won't feel sorry for him. You don't know him, only what he's done, and just _look! Still, she couldn't help but wonder what kind of life would force a man to live below an opera house…surely it wouldn't be simply personal preference!

All of her life, Meg had heard tales of the dreaded Opera Ghost. Even her mother, who had danced at the Populaire during its earliest years after the Franco-Prussian War, had grown up hearing the tales, though she had not spoken to Meg of the myths since arriving at the Opera House to live ten years ago. Though Antoinette Giry believed the theater to be haunted, Meg had never shared the superstitions common to the performing women's class. She didn't believe in ghosts, and had dismissed the stories as mere fiction – a convenient excuse in which to lay blame and a mildly interesting conversation piece. Never had she expected that the Phantom was a real man and that he would so affect her quiet life. She hadn't even been willing to admit the possibility of the specter's existence until opening day.

_He must be frightfully old_, Meg considered. His voice hadn't sounded old – in fact, it had sounded agelessly beautiful, and she had no idea what he looked like, but he must be old to have "haunted" the Populaire since its construction. The thought sickened her further. _Perfect_, the derisive side of her said,_ a frightening, _old_ madman in a mask – apparently with some damn power of mind control – has kidnapped my best friend, who is, to her disadvantage, young, beautiful, and painfully naïve. Lovely. _

And it seemed she was destined to become a puppet in his unexplained game. She didn't know what he meant by his comment that she could be of use to him, but she was afraid to find out. It seemed she had no choice, though, if he were to threaten "those close to her." Christine he had already taken, and her mother…

Meg felt like crying. She had made a mess of everything, hadn't she? But at the same time she grew angry at herself, she grew angry at the Phantom. _Who does the old man think he is, anyway? _she thought harshly. _You can't just kidnap a diva the night after her first triumph and threaten her best friend and their ballet instructor without consequences, even if you _are_ the famous dreaded Phantom of the Opera! _Vaguely, she wondered where he had learned his manners.

She raised her head and wiped forcefully at her eyes with the back of her right hand, hissing as the sore wrist bent roughly. She was nearly ready to try to open the secret passage she was sure was at her back and find that mysterious man and give him a piece of her mind, when she looked up and received a shock. A man was coming down the corridor, strolling casually and regarding the scattered props with definite interest.

He did not appear to have noticed her, so Meg stayed completely motionless and silent. She watched him as he walked toward her.

He was definitely a foreigner, she decided, noticing that despite his elegant French evening wear he wore a small scarlet astrakhan hat embroidered exotically with gold thread. His pointed black beard and slanted black eyes marked him an Easterner, but Meg knew little of such places and could not place him. His greying hair and lined face were evidence of middle age, but the tokens seemed to be remainders of a hard life, not merely a long one. His eyes were sharp and calculating, and Meg suddenly realized that he appeared to be looking _through_ the props, to the walls, instead of _at _them.

He was nearly on top of Meg before he noticed her, and even then it was only because she spoke.

"May I help you, Monsieur?"

The man jumped horribly, dark eyes darting everywhere to discover the source of the woman's voice. He soon spotted her – a gaunt figure tucked neatly in the small gap between a large suit of armor and a baby's crib. Her grey dress blended so well into the shadows, and the large blue eyes staring out of that pale face had such a haunted look about them, that his heart still raced even after he saw her, and it took him several seconds to convince himself that she was not a ghost. She watched him with those eerie eyes (_For Allah's sake, man, _he told himself_, you of all people should no longer be surprised by piercing eyes_), peering under large dark brows in a face that had the bloodless look of mortal terror, motionless in the shadows, with her knees drawn up to her chest and thin arms wrapped around them.

Only years of experience as one of the shah's top _daroga_s in the royal court of Persia allowed Nadir Khan to address the spectral child cordially and calmly in his severely accented French.

"Ah, oui, mademoiselle," he said, his baritone voice unfaltering on the foreign words. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and drew forth a small scrap of paper, and held it out to the seated girl.

Instead of simply taking the paper from her sitting position, she rose, long limbs unfolding gracefully until she stood an inch and a half taller than the Persian. She accepted the paper from hi ungloved hand, immediately recognizing the article from the _Époque_ that Raoul had shown her. Her face darkened, and she handed it back to Nadir without rereading it.

"I am interested in speaking to the young woman mentioned in this article," he said, gesturing with the scrap as he spoke. "One Christine Daae? I see that she is not in, but perhaps you know where she may be found?"

"Vous et tous les autres journalistes en France," Meg muttered, bad-tempered and clearly audible. "Well, I'm sorry, but as the article clearly states, Mlle Daae has been ill since her last performance, and is in no condition to speak to the press. So, if you please, monsieur –"

"Je ne suis pas journiliste, mademoiselle," Nadir managed to stammer out. The girl's exasperation made her a little difficult to understand, but luckly (and surprisingly) her accent contained the older, more formal dialect with which he had been taught and which he was used to. "I am not seeking to interview her for the press, I only wish to talk to her. Ask her a few questions…"

Meg was so upset with everything – the article, the Phantom's threats, Christine's admirers – that she threw all caution to the winds with her biting reply.

"Well, I'm afraid I still can't help you, sir. I don't know where she's gone, and I can't think of anyone who would be able to tell you. Maybe you could ask the Phantom, I'm sure _he_ would know where she'd gone…"

Because of the heavy sarcasm weighting her words, she had not expected this strange foreigner to take her seriously. That is why she was most surprised when his naturally tanned skin drained to an unhealthy pallor, and he clutched a hand to his aging chest with a slight stumble.

_Oh, no, _ he thought, hardly feeling the girl's strong steadying grip fasten under his elbow. _Oh, Erik, it couldn't be…_

"Monsieur?" the young woman's voice was no longer harsh and irritated, but low and smooth and concerned. "Sir, are you well? Do you need to sit down?" Perhaps they didn't have sarcasm where he came from, and he was overreacting at taking the idea of a haunted theatre seriously.

He managed a stunned nod, keeping his dark gaze fastened on the scarlet carpet so that she would not see the numb, disbelieving horror in his eyes. He hadn't wanted to suspect it when he first read the article; that was why he had come to the Opera to ask after the missing chorus girl. Surely, not after all he had done, after all Erik had promised, surely the child was joking…

Meg guided the stunned old man to the nearest seat, and enormous pine wood throne, painted elaborately to look to be inlaid with gold. He sank gratefully down onto the plush violet velvet cushion and took several deep, steadying breaths. The girl had to be joking; there was no reason to get so worked up. He would be able to find out soon enough anyway, he told himself, and so there was not point in sitting there and upsetting himself with speculation.

He looked up at the girl who hovered anxiously beside him and met her concerned blue gaze with his warm, reassuring dark one. "I'll be quite alright, miss," he told her in that lovely accent. "Thank you."

"You're certain you are well?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. These are just spells I have nothing serious. An old man's curse. I'll be able to make my own way out, thank you."

It was the politest of dismissals, but coming from a wealthy man, even a foreigner, and directed at a low-class woman like herself, Meg was by propriety compelled to leave him. Still concerned (and now slightly annoyed), she gave the elderly man a polite, deep curtsey and one last anxious look, and made her way down the dimly lit corridor, gracefully sliding between the more thickly stacked layers of props.

As soon as she was out of sight, Nadir stood and made his way quickly after her. He would resolve this situation immediately, by taking the matter straight to its source.

Erik.

**So, Erik and Nadir. I don't much like the way Erik was done this time, but I ran out of clever/menacing/sexy things to say. Sorry. But he's there, being eerie, and you got Nadir too. What more could you want?**


	18. Financial Frights

**I was going to wait until I got at least one review, but I figured I'd be waiting for quite some time. So, here. **

**As this chapter is going on, elsewhere, five stories below the Opera Populaire, Nadir is confronting Erik. If you want to know how that goes, read Phantom. Mrs. Kay writes it better than I ever could. You know, this is the "Christine Daae? _Christine Daae_, Erik!" or something like that scene, through "Whatever you are, Erik, you've always been a gentleman, haven't you?". That's always an irony to me. Erik has no choice but to be a gentleman, because that's all that keeps him from immediately being assumed a monster, to being tolerated. **

**But I'm rambling about a story not my own. On with the lame-tastic tale. **

Instead of returning to her dark dressing room, Meg headed up two levels of twisting cast iron staircases to the dormitory corridor. She intended to wait there for the return of her shopping friends. But to her surprise, as she neared the plain pine wood door, giggling voices like the happy bubbling of a brook could be heard tumbling over one another from inside.

She opened the door to find Lissette modeling a very daring bodice, so low-cut that even the top of her formal corset peeked over the neckline. The twins watched from perches on their own beds, each beside her own shopping bags.

All three girls quieted as they spotted Meg's silent, hesitant figure in the doorway. After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Julie said in her quiet, accepting manner, "Come on in, Meg. Do come see this lovely new skirt I bought."

And that was all it took for normalcy to return. As Meg crossed the room to sit on a vacant bed, Julie pulled a mass of gold-shot blue cloth out of her bag that was so large in comparison to its container that Meg thought she looked rather like a magician pulling a string of handkerchiefs out of his sleeve. The other two girls resumed heir lighthearted chatter, their surprised at Meg's abrupt departure and unexpected reappearance quickly and dutifully buried in the name of friendship. All three seemed intent on monopolizing Meg's attention, as they waved their newly purchased garments in front of her, vying for her praise of their selections.

After struggling through the recognition that they would not press her on her sudden departure, and fighting to process the many designs and colors flashed before her eyes, Meg's overwhelmed brain finally realized what was so odd about the bags each girl was so eagerly disemboweling.

"These are all from the same shop," she said suddenly, glancing up in surprise.

"Well, yes," Marie said, not missing a beat. "We were going to tell you before you left. That new store, that little one we went into, was absolutely_ magnificent_! They have the most _adorable_ things, all very affordable…" she gushed on, and the other two joined in, talking over her, but none asked why she had left so suddenly, and she loved them for it.

Still, she felt badly about the confusion and distress she must have caused them and their escort. As the chatter abated slightly, Meg sighed. She had nothing to offer them except a general apology, but that would have to do.

"About my leaving, mes amies, I'm sorry. I –"

But her apology was cut short by a sharp rapping on the corridor. Without waiting for an answer, Madame Giry's head appeared in the opening, still topped by that ridiculous black-feathered hat.

"Meg, cherie, could I speak to you for a moment?"

Her voice was tight and slightly forced, but Meg had heard the tone often enough to know that something was very wrong.

"Of course," Meg said, standing and straightening her skirts. "Please excuse me; I'll be right back."

Upon closer inspection, Meg could see that her mother's eyelids were reddish and slightly puffy, and that the hollows of her cheeks had the red speckled look one gets from too much sun, and that her makeup no longer seemed to flatter so much. To Meg, she was quite clearly fighting back tears, and it seemed that she was on the verge of losing the battle.

"Mama?" Meg asked, very worried. She hadn't seen her mother cry in nearly ten years. "Mama, what's wrong?"

"Oh, Meg," her mother said, shaking her head, clearly unable to voice her problem. "Oh, my dear sweet child."

"What is it, Mama? Is someone hurt?"

"No, no, child. It's—I—I've lost my job."

"What!"

Meg's stomach felt like it had simultaneously turned to ice and dropped several feet. "W-What do you mean?"

"Not my job as ballet instructor, but my job as Box Attendant. I'm being replaced."

"What!" Meg's sigh of relief was cut off by a cry of indignation. "Replaced by whom?"

"By a friend of Monsieur Firmin's," Mme Giry answered, recalling with the faintest smile that her reaction to this unexpected news had been exactly like her daughter's.

"_What! What do you mean, 'replaced'? Replaced by whom?" she demanded, half-fearful, half-furious. _

"_By a friend of min, a woman of no consequence," M Firmin said, gesturing placatingly with both hands as Mme Giry drew herself up to her full height before him. "It has been drawn to our attention that perhaps two jobs are too much strain on your time, and that you would be better occupied to be backstage during performances, coordinating the dancers."_

"_No, no! The dancers are fine – Monsieur, I need that job! I need the money!"_

"_Come, come, Madame Giry, surely the salary of ballet mistress is more than enough to support yourself!" M Andre said, smiling nervously, a gesture that was becoming all too familiar. _

"_But my daughter will not be paid for dancing for another year! I have her to support as well!"_

_The managers exchanged guilty looks._

"_But…perhaps the girl's father…?" Andre suggested lamely._

_Mme Giry's face darkened with immeasurable sadness, though she nearly hid it with a wall of cold affront. "He does not support us," she said, her voice a myriad of emotions. _

_The managers looked extremely guilty._

"_Still, madame, we feel that…these changes must be made. I'm sorry, but that is our final decision."_

She had hardly noticed when Firmin had stopped talking and the pair had made their embarrassed retreat, so lost was she in her turbulent thoughts. It wasn't only the money that worried her – what about her bargain with the Phantom, who had been acting as Meg's guardian spirit? Would he continue to help them if she could no longer personally attend his box? What would become of their agreement? Naturally she couldn't confess these worries to her daughter, but the money concerns Meg would be able to understand.

But financial difficulties were a far second in Meg's stunned mind. All she oculd think was numbly _This is my fault_ over and over again. _He did this – that horrible man! – He did this to hurt Mama – because of me – it's all my fault – it's all _his_ fault – that bastard! – What am I going to do – he must have seized his first opportunity – it's so sudden—_

Numb thoughts chased each other around her mind like bewildered rats, until the fog of her confusion parted, and placed before her eyes the sight of her mother, anxious face deeply lined with worry, her work-roughed hands twisting nervously around the bundle of Meg's winter wear that she still carried. Meg could undetstand her mother being perplexed at the new managers' sudden decision (if only it _had_ been theirs!), after all, her mother did not believe in the Phantom. She would be angry, even, but Meg wondered what would make her so nervous.

Of course! The money! The realization of their second predicament hit Meg like a blow to the stomach. With the expenses required to support a growing teenage girl and her mother, and the fact that Meg would not be paid for her services in the corps until her eighteenth birthday, Madame Giry's additional income as Box Attendant was very important to the ladies' lives.

It was why Meg never had as nice things as the other girls, why her clothes were always just a shade too short and shabby, why her drawers and shelves were a bit emptier. The other girls could afford to embark on Sunday shopping sprees – they had families outside the Populaire willing to indulge their daughters' fantasies with monthly allowances. But, to be quite honest, Meg didn't know if she had family outside the Opera. And even if she did, they certainly couldn't turn to _him_ for funds.

But this was no time to worry. She had to be strong for her mother. She arranged her face into a brave and determined expression, and gently took her clothes from her mother before the nervous wringing of the ballet mistress's hands frayed the old cloak's edges any further.

"It'll be alright," Meg said soothingly , giving her mother a tight, comforting hug. We'll get through perfectly fine, don't you worry."

Antoinette nearly cried with relief. The dear girl knew that her ballet instructor's salary wasn't anywhere _near_ what it should be, and yet she was confident that she would survive. She put no concern – had never voiced a concern – with the inferior state of her possessions, or the possibility that they bay not be able to build a decent dowry for her. Antoinette silently thanked God, as she hugged her daughter close, for giving her such a sacrificing and understanding child and companion.

"Thank you," she said aloud, and even she wasn't sure whether it was to Meg or the Lord that she spoke.

Meg reentered the dormitory hall exceedingly subdued, and once again the room's happy occupants ceased their babble as she appeared. She hugged her bundle of hat and cloak close to her chest as she crossed to an empty bed and sank down onto it. Her downcast eyes never rose to meet the curious gaze of her friends, and she didn't even jump as the door slammed heavily shut behind her.

"Meg?" Julie asked, setting aside her new massive blue skirt and padding to Meg's side with all the silent grace of a practiced dancer. The other two followed her quietly, and all seated themselves beside Meg, reaching out with calming hands.

Meg looked around at them, her blue eyes swimming with angry, confused, shameful tears. How could she tell them?

"I…Maman…We…Mama lost her job." The words tumbled over themselves in a rush of sound.

The girls gasped.

"Not as instructor – her second job, as a Box Attendant."

"Oh, that's right," Lissette said, her relief evident, "your mother attends the Phantom's Box, doesn't she?"

Meg glanced up at her sharply through her tears. She had forgotten that stupid rumor, which she had always done her best to discourage. Now she realized that it may be more than rumor, and she filed the information away for future study.

"_Attended_, now," Meg said softly, defeat showing in her tone as much as in the fact that she did not correct Lissette's statement.

"Oh!" Marie said, her bright exclamation of realization a sharp contrast to the quiet, somber setting. "_That's_ why you didn't want to shop with us today!"

Meg's assenting response was somber, but inside she leapt at the excuse. "Yeah…"

With soothing mutterings, her friends offered what little comfort they could. They gave their sympathies to Meg and her mother, and their reassurances that they would get by.

Meg hardly heard them. In her mind, she heard the Phantom's threats, her mother's tearful voice, even Christine's elated whispers as she spoke of her Angel. Some strange angel… She vowed to rectify this situation, one way or another. Her tears disappeared, leaving an angry headache and clear, cold determination in their wake.

She didn't want sympathy. In her furious, embarrassed, worried, jealous heart, what she really wanted was revenge.

**­**

**I know this wasn't too interesting, but it was the end of chapter 14 that was a bit too long to stick at the end of the last post. Shows that the lives of the Opera's inhabitants went on during those two weeks Christine was with Erik. **

**But, there is hope yet. Next chapter (should be!), Christine returns and Erik reveals his plan for Meg. Yay, yay. **

**Love, **

**Paige Turner. **


	19. A Phantom's Plans

**Hey, you guys don't think my Meg's a Mary-Sue, do you? Only some of my friends reckon she is, and if anyone can think Mandy the O's character Genn in An Eternity of This is a Mary-Sue, than anyone can be one. Just asking, 'cause I really don't want her to seem that way – I just want Meg to seem like a normal person, believable, but not…marysueish. **

**Chapter 15**

**A Phantom's Plans**

However, Meg had no opportunity for revenge present itself over the next week. The final shows of _Hannibal_ ran without incident, save for the occasional minor costume difficulties and line burbles, which went largely unnoticed by the aristocratic audience. Every night, over a thousand seats were filled by all layers of the upper crust of Parisian society, from the wealthiest merchants to near-royal nobles. These audiences came not to watch the Opera, but to socialize, and watched the performance only as intermissions in their true outings. Very few stayed through the end of Act IV, which Meg still found thoroughly disheartening, even after ten years of this routine. Still, she and the other performers gave their all for the audience, especially those few in the front of the auditorium who actually paid attention.

During the days, Meg grew increasingly depressed. She seemed to be spiraling into a deep well of hopelessness and guilt. Every time she saw her mother backstage during that week's performances, a hot wave of shame flooded over her as she witnessed what her own rashness had brought about. And in the wake of each wave of shame came a wave of anger, until she once became so upset that she missed her entrance, forgetting to cross to stage left, and was forced to enter on the opposite side.

Her fellow chorus members assumed that her foul mood swings were a product of her mother's losing her place as usher. They had all heard the story in the standard short amount of time that it took for any rumor to penetrate the Populaire, and Meg was thoroughly annoyed by every single variation to their reactions. The kinder girls, who got on well with Meg's friendly, easygoing attitude, were sympathetic and offered their support, though it was obvious none of them meant it. Their reassurances soon morphed into something painfully like pity, so that each time girls stopped speaking as she approached, whether in the halls or the baths, Meg's face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

_Am I supposed to be mad, _Meg asked herself, sitting alone on one of the catwalks over the stage, one of the places she went most often when she wanted to be alone, _that my mother's salary isn't very much? It's not her fault that they don't pay her what she deserves, or me yet. And Mama makes infinitely more than any of _their_ mothers; I'll bet they don't even work! Well, there might be a few of them who work during the evenings…_ All of the unwanted attention was making her even more caustic than usual.

But the sympathetic ones weren't the worst, however much they hurt Meg's pride. Those performers who came from higher class families, or those who fancied themselves above the common level of chorus girls like Meg, made their amusement at the Girys' predicament inescapably obvious.

"It is such a shame," Carlotta could be heard saying loudly during warmup on Monday night, making sure that her accented words were clearly audible to all of the stretching cast, "to see a mother who is unable to support her child." Her dark eyes glittered maliciously as Meg stiffened as she sat on the floor, stretching her legs. Carlotta continued, raising her voice ever so slightly. "I pity the poor chorus girl who must marry the first sad man to make an offer, who will surely leave her, with no options but to force the same fate on her daughter. The cycle continues, and with managers who make uninfluenced judgments on a woman's quality –"

Meg leapt to her feet, intending to storm over to the loathsome woman and give her a fistful of what she had been unable to give her a week ago, when the diva had been so cruel to that child. That woman had been needling her nerves for long enough—

Another voice interrupted Carlotta at the same instant that Meg rose. "On the other hand, Carlotta, I think it admirable when one is able to marry after such a successful career at the Populaire." Two sets of arms had seized Meg by each of her arms and were restraining her with difficulty.

Another voice, so like the first, joined in. "Otherwise, some women may be forced into more distasteful means of earning their bread, putting their long years of training to use in more lowly establishments than the Opera…such as taverns." Julie's normally soft voice was cold and hard.

"Though, I have heard that there are some _establishments_ that pay their _working women _quite well…in Barcelona…" Marie's voice again, her voice as steely as her sister's.

Meg's anger quickly abated and she laughed easily along with the rest of the cast as Carlotta flushed a deep rose. Everyone knew that the comments were a jibe at the diva's shady past, cruel reminders that, though she had taken many lovers, no man had ever offered her his name, and that she had begun her career as a common tavern harlot.

All the air had gone out of Madame Guidichelli at that moment, and that night's performance continued with no greater incident than the occasional snarl backstage. Thankfully, both women were rarely offstage at the same time, and both were too professional to do the other a serious injury while onstage.

Meg was endlessly grateful that this week, she had something to occupy her mind other than the increasingly worrying abduction of her best friend or the unstable state of her mother's funds. Audition material was passed out for the next opera, a romance by Caulbert titled _Il Muto_. Both orchestra and cast now spent their mornings practicing their material for the auditions which would be held the Monday after the end of _Hannibal_. Cast and crew would be picked soon after, and individual scripts would be handed out within the week.

Meg had reviewed the master score with her mother, and, at her mother's encouragement, decided to audition for a more prominent role. Though the main solos would undoubtedly go to la Sorelli, Meg hoped against hope that she would land a minor solo, if only to please her mother in these difficult times.

To distract herself from current events, Meg spent the entirety of her mornings in the least used dance hall, practicing alone in front of the large mirrored walls unceasingly for hours on end. As this particular room was hardly ever used, she had spent much of the first morning clearing old props from their forgotten stacks in front of the mirrors. Some were so old that she barely remembered performing in their operas, though she did find one small pink dress that was identical to the one she had worn in Mozart's _Cossi Fan Tutti_ at the age of eleven. She was rarely disturbed by other dancers, as most preferred the two larger, well-lit dance halls closer to the stage. Whenever the curious or shy did drop by, they rarely stayed for more than thirty minutes, as embarrassed as Meg at having an audience and quite intimidated by the furious intensity of the blonde girl's private rehearsal. Meg was quite relieved when her unwanted guests departed; she was fiercely shy about practicing in front of others, and found that her confidence and performance suffered greatly from their intrusions.

Towards the end of the week, Meg was growing so desperate to find any distraction from the helpless thoughts of Christine's absence and her mother's difficulty, that she spent every moment not on stage in this back room. She pushed herself to the limits of her physical and mental state, often skipping lunches, barely leaving herself enough strength to perform during the evenings. She brought her mother's script with her twice, and took it to bed with her after the performances, taking the opportunity to distract herself by determining the personality of the character she wished to portray.

Unfortunately, she found the whole opera desperately dull. Romances had never been Meg's favorite operas, as they were fraught with the lewd insinuations and shallow trysts common to the inordinately wealthy. Sure enough, this opera featured an unfaithful Countess and her lover – who was, to Meg's surprise, cast as a woman. In all her years of acting, she had not yet understood the purpose of casting a woman in a man's role, or vice versa, when there were plenty of actors of the appropriate sex more than willing to play the role. As Carlotta would undoubtedly be given the role of Countess, Meg decided to try out for a role simply labeled "Maid." It would give her three solo appearances and two spoken lines, if she achieved it, which was more than the parts labeled "Chorus" were allotted.

On the night before the final performance of _Hannibal_, Meg returned from the stage desperately tired. She had spent the day dancing non-stop alone, until spots of blood could be seen seeping through the cotton packing and silk lining of her practice slippers. She had nearly fallen asleep during makeup, and she had been forced to concentrate so hard during the performance to not mess up that she had given herself a headache.

"I really should take it a bit easier tomorrow," Meg told her empty room as she entered and lit a lamp and several candles. It was only the vivid recollection of the threats Mme DuLevre, the head seamstress, had put upon their heads if they wrinkled their costumes that kept Meg from collapsing headfirst into bed. With an exhalation that would have been a sigh if she wasn't so tired, she unbuttoned her bodice with difficulty and shrugged off the pale purple gown, letting it pool at her feet while she struggled out of her corset. Once down only to her chemise, she picked up the discarded costume and hung it neatly on a peg by the door, making sure to check the folds so that they would not wrinkle. The sounds of the crowd in the hallway outside were muffled through the thick door, making her sleepy with the low noises.

She crossed to her washbasin stand, checking her reflection in the small makeup mirror hanging above it. She looked every inch as exhausted as she felt, despite the layers of stage makeup that caked her face. She poured a small amount of water into the basin from her pitcher and splashed her face several times, washing the makeup away and patting her face dry with a small square of cloth.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the small room, guttering the candles and making Meg shiver through the thin material of her shift. She looked up again into the mirror, frowning at the plain features under now sodden bangs.

Her face was not the only one in the mirror.

She screamed and leapt back, crashing solidly into something very unyielding. Skeletal arms wrapped around her, one gloved hand muffling her scream, the other fastening around her throat. She thrashed and reached out for the pitcher, vaguely intending to bash her attacker over the head with the hard porcelain, but her captor spun her away from the mirror so that she faced the dark room, turning her so forcefully that her feet left the ground and she sputtered at the force of his grip.

"I would advise you not to scream again," the Phantom hissed in her ear, giving her face a hard shake by the grip on her jaw, the cold porcelain of the mask brushing her face in a deadly kiss.

Meg nodded, her eyes wide with terror.

He suddenly released her and she crumpled onto the floor, gasping for air. The room was completely dark, and it seemed as though a malevolent dark presence had filled the room like a billowing black smoke, pressing in on her and making it difficult to breath or think straight. She cast a wide-eyed glance feverishly around the room, and thought that for a minute two scarlet orbs, gleaming like fresh drops of blood, were visible looming above her. She shuddered.

Erik stood over her, cat-like vision functioning perfectly in the darkness, noticing faintly how thinly clothed she was, how very, very vulnerable she was. But he was here on a mission, and he would not let himself be distracted.

"What do you want?" the girl asked him, her voice trembling. "Why did you have to take your hate out on Mother?"

"You had to learn that your incessant meddling can have very dire consequences," Erik told her, no trace of emotion in that steel-hard voice. "But now I shall offer you a chance to remedy this situation."

Meg had to force herself to say what she needed to say next. "Please…what must I do?" Begging was against her nature, something she had promised herself ten years ago she would never stoop to again, not as a woman. Begging was an act of her childhood, and brought back too many memories of weakness, but she would do it for her mother.

Erik took his time in responding, settling himself casually in the girl's small makeup chair. The girl waited with baited breath for his next words.

"Tomorrow night, Christine Daae will return to you."

Meg's sharp intake of breath was loud in the silence, but he did not afford her the chance to speak.

"Here is what you must do."

After he had finished delivering his instructions, there was a deafening silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Meg hardly dared speak. How could he ask her to do that, and to her best friend? How…

"Sir?" she asked timidly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

There was no response, not even breathing.

"Sir?" she asked again, and again there was no answer.

Suddenly the lamp and candles flared to light again, and Meg cowered instinctively to shield her eyes against the sudden brightness. Soon, the room was lit merrily, looking as though nothing sinister had ever occurred.

_Maybe…maybe I was just a little too tired,_ Meg told herself without any real conviction. _Maybe…maybe I just blacked out, and I dreamed it all. _

But then she saw evidence to the contrary that made her heart stand still for several seconds.

A single red rose, dewy petals and razor-sharp thorns glittering in the candlelight, bound with a single black ribbon, rested serenely in her porcelain pitcher. _Remember_, it seemed to say, thorns sparkling wickedly. _Remember, and obey. _

**Okay, kind of short, but the next bit's pretty long and has to be by itself. So, um, here. Enjoy. And review. **

**Remember, review! **

**Remember and obey. **

** Paige Turner. **


	20. A Terrible Tale

**Come on, people. I know when you look and don't review. I appreciate you for looking, but PLLLEEEEAAASSSEEEEEEEE review. Many thanks to ****Racetrack's Goil****, the only one who's bother's reviewing. Thank you very much. **

**Anyway, another chapter. See how fast I write for you (coughungratefulcough) guys? **

**Actually, most of this chapter isn't original material at all, so I'll forgive you if you don't review. It tells my version of Christine's two weeks with Erik, so you know what happened, and it gives you a taste of the mind of my Christine, who is not quite like her GL, SK, or ALW counterparts, though I wish she could be. See previous A/N. **

**Since it's so much other people's work, I'll stick in another disclaimer. I DON'T OWN THIS, AND DON'T ACT LIKE YOU EVEN THINK I DO, 'CAUSE YOU KNOW I DON'T. Yeah. **

**Anyway, this one got a bit too long to include Meg's side of their discussion, so it's coming as soon as I write it, which will be soon, I promise. She'll pull it together, really, restoring Christine faith in her Angel through logic and reason and the faith of a friend. Though you really should find that out on your own. **

**­**_ Some say I'm crazy for my love,  
But no bonds can hold me from your side.  
They don't know you can't leave me  
They don't hear you singing to me………_

_-- Evanescence, Even in Death. _

**Chapter 16**

Meg's sleep that night was shallow and fitful, and twice she was awoken because she had thrown her new blankets halfway across the room in her sleep. She did not remember what she had been dreaming, only that something had been stolen and she was trying to find it, but the person who had taken it was hunting her and she was running, running, hiding, but it was never enough to escape.

_Sounds familiar_, Meg thought bitterly, when she finally gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed to begin dressing. _Fascinating, how dreams mirror real life sometimes, isn't it?_

After dressing, she collected her sheaf of audition material and her mother's full score and proceeded silently up the winding flights of stairs to her dance hall. The wall clock and windows she passed told her that it was shortly after daybreak, but she no longer wished to sleep. She would sing and dance, and think of nothing but the music, and relish the fact that none were yet awake to hear her.

Once alone in the practice hall, she wiped clean circles on the dusty windows to allow entrance to the faint sunlight, wondering vaguely when was the last time the maid staff had visited this back room. She sat alone on the floor, her skirts spread about her in a perfect circle, and studied the score until she found the music for the number she had heard a violin duet practicing yesterday as audition material. She learned music best by hearing it first – she had never been gifted with singing straight from the page. She heard the sweet strains in her head as she sat, and once she was sure she could remember it perfectly, she stood, began to pace aimlessly around the room, and sang.

_So long he has gone_

_Shall he ever return?_

_Shall England take his life or heart?_

_If so, when shall we learn?_

_The kindness of our master_

_His ladylove knows not._

_Her lover young defers to her_

_And leaves us here to rot._

She was not really in the pitch the score dictated, but her singing grew in strength after several minutes, and she began to twirl in suggestions of the steps. She had not practiced this song before as it was not in the audition packet, but it had sounded so beautiful and sad that she wanted to try it. All of the other songs she had looked at were bright and, well, rather sordid. This one was written for two servant women who missed their true master, the Countess's departed husband. The lyrics weren't good for much, but the music was what mattered to Meg, and the duet of double voice and violin appealed to her musical heart.

Meg spent an hour practicing the whole of that song, despite the fact that she believed that Sorelli and one of the older women would get the roles. She dared not go to Sorelli for help concerning her practicing – if the prima ballerina saw her as a threat, she would hurt Meg's performance rather than help the competition. Also, Sorelli seemed to be taking the side of those who mocked Meg for her mother's predicament.

_Foul creatures,_ Meg thought, her angry thought personifying itself with rather more force than was necessary in her pirouette, causing her to spin off balance and fall sideways into one of the large mirrors. The mistake further upset her so much that she ran through every song in her audition packet, only stopping when the sun was well up and the protests of her empty stomach demanded that she journey to the kitchens for some breakfast.

After a late meal of a single apple, she returned to her still-empty room. She was glad for the quiet as she continued her private rehearsal, now lowering her singing so that no passers-by would hear. Twice more she fell, and when she rose the second time her vision swam and was interspersed with green dots on a background of black. She stood very still for several seconds, a horrible pressure filling her head, but it soon passed and she continued her practice. This was no time for weakness.

She rehearsed until four-thirty, again skipping lunch, until it was time to do her prop check and costume organization. Passing the kitchens as she moved her costumes to the dressing hallway, she grabbed a cold roll leftover from lunch to quiet her rumbling stomach. As she descended the stairs, her toes throbbed so much from their continual abuse that she had to check behind her twice to reassure herself that she did not leave bloody footprints in her wake.

The performance went exactly as all the others before it; the standard slip-ups were committed but nothing serious transpired. As it was the final show, following the performance the new managers, the director, Madame Giry, and M Reyer all were called up to the stage to be presented with flowers by the cast. Meg was chosen to give a horridly lurid bouquet to her mother and an only slightly subdued arrangement to M Reyer, but the gesture was appreciated despite the choice of flora.

After the performance, everyone was too tired or too relieved or too busy to deal with their props or costumes, so Meg was able to retire directly. Tastefully declining a dinner invitation from the twins and an offer from Lissette to accompany a gentleman friend of hers, she delicately extracted herself from the crowd packing the corridors and gratefully locked her dressing room behind her.

She knew Christine was not due to return for several hours, and being incapable of consciously awaiting her arrival, Meg finally succumbed to her body's demands and fell fast asleep, still fully costumed, not even bothering to remove her makeup.

She awoke several hours later as suddenly as if someone had doused her in cold water. She immediately sat up, anticipation coursing through her that maybe, finally, here would be the proof that her friend was unharmed and safe. The change in elevation caused her vision to swim again, but she blindly rose and retrieved the key to Christine's room.

As she hurried to Christine's dressing room, she did not bother trying to keep silent. If Christine was back, if she was safe… it wouldn't matter if someone heard her.

She unlocked the door with difficulty, fumbling with the small keyhole in her anxiety. She threw the door open and yes, there, on the bed, _at last_, lay Christine Daae, her chocolate curls spread angelically on the pillow around her, her porcelain skin glinting the faint light of a single candle.

Christine had woken with a start as Meg flung open the door. She sat up and blinked blearily, taking in her surroundings with unfathomable disbelief and relief.

The two women locked eyes, and both remained motionless for several seconds, which seemed to stretch into an eternity. Then Meg rushed to the bed and Christine sat up and the two friends embraced like sisters who had never thought they would see each other again.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so glad you're alright!" Meg said, spitting out a few brown curls as she spoke.

"I'm free…" Christine said, her beautiful voice such a pitiable thankfulness that Meg nearly cried. "Oh, for a second I thought you were another dream…I dreamed about freedom so often…but you _are_ real!"

"Yes," Meg reassured her, putting her hands on Christine's wrists and giving her hands a little comforting shake. "Yes, you're free, you're safe."

Christine shivered suddenly, and Meg noticed she was wearing the exact nightdress she had worn when she told Meg to waylay Raoul, a two-week-long eternity ago. She shot a terrified glance across the darkened room, unable to see the large mirror but sure that that…presence, that terrifying, consuming presence was behind it, still watching her, unwilling to release her even now.

"He's not there," Meg said suddenly. Christine's head whipped around at her soft words, meeting Meg's unfaltering icy gaze. "Your Angel of Music. He's not there."

Christine stared at her disbelievingly. "But I thought you never believed the stories of the Angel," she said, then lowered her gaze. "And you were right. There never was an Angel."

"No, no! Don't you see, Christine? You were right all along! Your faith in the stories brought the Angel to you!"

"No, Meg." Christine's denial was defeated, so soft that it was barely audible. "There is no Angel of Music. There is only Erik."

"But Christine—"

"No, Meg!" Christine's shout caused Meg to jump, and tears began to prickle at the back of her blue eyes at the lie she knew she must tell.

"You weren't there," Christine said. "You didn't hear the Voice behind the mirror, you didn't hear it singing to me, you didn't find yourself inexplicably outside your dressing room with no idea how you got there, you didn't find a man on the other side, he didn't grab you, you didn't faint from the smell of _death_ on his hands!"

_Only two out of six, I'm afraid,_ Meg thought with the tiniest of wry smiles.

"Please, Christine, just tell me. I'm sure I can help explain—"

Christine's laugh was bordering on hysterical, a wilder sound than Meg had ever heard her use before her imprisonment.

"Explain? What's to explain?"

"The Angel of Music," Meg said simply. "You know how I know myths and the like. I know the story of the Angel. He's real, Christine, and you've met him."

Christine shook her head sadly. "No, Meg, no. He's just a man, just a poor, unhappy man."

"Just tell me, Christine. Maybe I can prove it to you. Tell me what happened."

Christine simply stared at her for several seconds as though quite unable to believe what she was hearing. Her thoroughly sensible friend, with a firm disbelief in haunts and superstitions, was offering to explain how her father's bedtime stories could be true. On top of everything she had recently endured, it was nearly all too much.

"Very well," she said, her voice bland. "When I awoke, I was in a large bedroom, decorated most fashionably in the Louis-Philippe style, with full furniture, and a large curtained bed on which I found myself. There were flowers all around, most of which I had received that night, and trinkets from my dressing room. A picture of Papa, a diary, my rosary beads. Then a man appeared, and told me I was in no danger, and _it was the Voice_. I was angry and struck at him – no, don't smile, I really did! I was frightened! – but he pushed me away with instructions never to touch his mask. He wore a mask, you see, of white porcelain, that covered his whole face, and rightly so – but we shall get to that later.

"He knelt before me and I saw the room again, and how very real it seemed, and I knew I was not dreaming, and I knew I had been tricked, for years and years, for the Voice was no Angel – he was a man.

"And he knew what I realized, and he admitted! Explain that away, Meg, he admitted: 'I am neither an angel nor a genie, nor a phantom. I am Erik,' he said."

Meg opened her mouth to state the reply she had prepared, but Christine had warmed to her story, and would not stop.

"He said he loved me, Meg. He said he had kidnapped me out of love, he said. He stole me away and he frightened me, then he begged my forgiveness as he knelt at my feet! (_Do we know the same man? _Meg wondered.) He cried for shame, and I could see tears drip through the eyeholes of that terrifying mask, and beneath it, so I knew a solid, breathing, weeping _man_ knelt before me so pitiably, and my heart was both cold and afraid and moved by his pleas. He said I could leave him, deny him, if I was afraid of him, (_Heaven's sake, Christine, _why didn't you leave!) but I remembered how he had taught me, how that very night I had sung for him and given my soul's breath to him and _said I loved him_ and how he had given me greatness in return. And so I stayed.

"For two long weeks I stayed, Meg. For two weeks, I sang with him, and there was only music. Tell me, Meg, what kind of man kidnaps a young woman and then treats her as though she were made of glass, never touching me, only singing. For two weeks there was all manner of music, glorious music. We sang solos and duets from every Opera ever written, and many he had written himself. He is truly a genius, you know; though we spoke only of music I could tell. He has devices in his room – oh, his room! His room is all in black, with the notes of the _Dies Irae_ written on the wall, with _a canopied coffin_ for a bed. A coffin, Meg, he sleeps in a coffin! And truly he should, for he is a _man of death_.

"I despaired as I remained. I ate little and slept much and sang the rest of the time, and I never spoke to Erik. Even knowing he is a man, it is odd to say his name – Erik. He rarely spoke to me, skirting my presence like a cowed dog. He wrote, mostly, on a piece he calls _Don Juan Triumphant_. I…I heard it once." Her voice became suddenly hard, more emotion packed into her words than could be determined. "It is pure, unbridled feeling on paper, the notes burning your body and seducing your mind. He swore he would never play it for me, that we would play Opera songs, but…after I…

"I was curious, you see. Every night and every day (the two were the same there, you see) I thought of the mask. Perhaps he wanted none to know him once I was freed, but…that wasn't it, I knew. I had to see the face behind the mask, to know the face of my captor, my Angel.

"One day, as we sang, I had to know. I tore the mask from his face as we sang and – and – Oh, horror!"

She shuddered violently and hid her face in her hands. Meg held her comfortingly, wondering what new lie she would be forced to invent now.

"Oh, horror, horror!" Christine repeated, speaking now through her hands. "His face – Oh, Meg, oh, God! So distorted, so deformed, oh, God, and it was my fault I saw! His face, Meg, was the face of a corpse in the height of decay, of fleshless rot, of yellow skin stretched tight over bone. His hair hung in four weak wisps under what I now realized was a black wig. His nose was merely a sunken gap, and his glowing yellow eyes, barely visible even with out the mask, spat fiery hate at me so that I cowered in fear for my life. His lips were grossly twisted and malformed and purple, and they spewed insults at me which I can scarcely remember from my terror. I feared he would strike me down… but he never did." In the midst of her relived terror, Christine's voice suddenly grew soft with wonder. "He dragged me to face me, forced me to look upon that…that dead visage, but it was my fault to see. And he did not beat me down for it, only cried that he was a creature of death and that his love for me had stolen the only part of him that lived, his heart, and now it died with the rest of him. He said that I would never leave now, not to tell of his hideousness to the world, and he was crushed by my betrayal. He left in the blindness of tears, and it broke my heart. I know you will think me soft, or weak, or mad, but his sadness was so pitiful that my soul called out to him as one soul should to another, and I called out to him as he reached the door to that awful room of his.

"I knew he was right – that though I may have willingly returned before I saw his face I would no longer. And yet I cried out to him that I still loved him for the voice he had given me, the kindness he had shown me, for the genius he had seen fit to bestow on my mortal head. And he turned to my words of hope and was so pitiful in his optimism that I believed myself, and when he fell at my feet with words of devotion I made myself look away, so as not to deny the poor creature the one small comfort of my acceptance.

"And now, Meg, will you tell me he is not real? Will you tell me that, after I have spent the days since that night a week ago rowing in a boat on his underground lake, strolling around the shore of an island five stories below our feet? He frightens me, Meg, and it is the fear of a mortal man, of the wrath a jealous lover spurned and forgotten, of a real man betrayed that frightens me, not the divine wrath of an Angel. So speak, Meg, and say your piece. I have trusted you with my story, for you are like a sister to me. You know the stories of peoples long dead, and you can tell me now why I should return unafraid to this Phantom, this kidnapper, this madman."

_Don't!_ Meg wanted to shout. _Don't go back! Run away! _She wanted to take Chrisitne by the hands and pull her from the Populaire and throw her on the fastest carriage to the de Chagny estate where she would be safe from this manipulator, but she couldn't. The life of her mother hung in the balance, and Meg would not abandon her after all she had sacrificed for her daughter.

She took a deep breath, and began her lie.


	21. A Lamentable Lie

**Meg's a bit of a spontaneous liar like myself, and believe me, that comes in handy. Plus, she's had all day to think up reasons to say why a man would live under an opera house and call himself an angel of music, and her background in being fond of mythology gives her a certain credibility to Christine. **

**Plus, it helps that Christine really does want to believe that her angel is real. Wouldn't you? **

**This is kind of short, but I said I'd get Meg's half of the conversation up as soon as I could, didn't I? And thanks eversomuch for reviewing. **

**Chapter 17**

**A Lamentable Lie**

"Christine, how much to you really know about the legend of the Angel of Music?"

Christine shrugged indifferently. "Only as a character in the story of Little Lotte, though Father said that the Angel was real, and that He visited all of the great musicians."

"That's right, Christine, that's exactly right! At first, I just looked up the Lotte story, but I found a reference to another book, and I found the whole legend!"

Christine shrugged again, and Meg was thoroughly put out by her apathetic attitude.

"Listen to me! Don't you want to know who _really_ held you these past two weeks? Don't you care?"

"I already told you, it was only Erik."

Meg sighed. A name was always hard to explain away. But she had to try.

"Just listen.

"The Angel of Music was one of the most revered Angels in Heaven once. He led the choirs of Angels that sang for the Lord, and is the original composer of songs of worship and praise. You've heard him, Christine; do you doubt the heavenly powers of his voice? He gave the great musicians their gifts…and that was his downfall.

"Legend has it that the Angel of Music became so preoccupied with the music of earth that he began to spend his time with mortals, listening to mortal music, rather than composing for the Lord. God grew angry and cast the Angel from Heaven, saying that if he loved the humans so much then he could live among them. And where would a discarded Angel of Music choose to live if forced down to Earth? Not among people, surely, but alone, where he could revel in music for eternity."

"This Opera House," Christine whispered, the determined despairing set of her jaw relaxing slightly as she considered the lie Meg was feeding her.

"Exactly! What better place than this most beautiful house of music? I know you've thought this before; it's one of the reasons why you said you first chose the Populaire to live, isn't it?"

Christine nodded, but she still didn't look convinced.

"But why would he kidnap me?" she asked. "Why not tell me who he was and ask me to join him?"

"Oh, but he did, didn't he?" Meg said quietly. "You knew he was the Angel – you told me as such three years ago. And he might have feared that you would react as you did if he bade you come—"

"But Meg, he said he was no angel, he said it!"

"I can only assume that he was ashamed that he no longer resided in Heaven, that he had been cast down, and that he had been reduced to the lowly level of man on Earth. He also could have seen what he did to you, kidnapping you, and distinctly un-angelic."

"But his face, Meg, that awful face!"

"Christine, that should have been your biggest clue! What man could ever survive with a face like that? Think, girl, how does one become an angel? You die. He looks dead because he _is_ dead, he sleeps in a coffin because it was the last bed he knew on this earth! Are those habits of a normal man, even a madman? They are habits of a cast-out Angel, and you have seen them because he loves you, in some way I cannot begin to guess at, but he loves you. Do not shun the love of an Angel – your protector."

She grasped the girl's slim hands and noticed how very cold they were.

"He has watched over you and taught you for three years. Can you deny that he wishes the best for you? His only consolation after being sent to earth is music, and with him you can make the most beautiful music ever imagined. It is impossible to guess what he feels, but…that's the best I can do."

Her final statement was not to the stunned brunette in front of her, but the black presence she knew was lurking behind the mirror, watching, weighing, waiting.

Suddenly Christine threw her arms around Meg, clutching her and beginning to cry.

"I've been an ungrateful pig, haven't I, Meg?" she sobbed into Meg's shoulder. "I denied him, ignored him, when all he wanted was my music and my companionship. I'm…I'm so sorry, I'll have to go back and apologize…"

"Shh…" Meg whispered, patting her dark curls a little awkwardly. "You're forgetting again – he's an Angel. He'll always be watching you…he'll always hear you…"

She shivered at the realization that this was true, that that spectral man would always prey on her friend, stalking her every move. She hated herself for restoring Christine's innocent faith in that horrible man, but she could not remain unfeeling as Christine lamented what Erik had "only wanted."

Slowly, Christine's sobs quieted, and she relaxed her hold on the woman who was so like a sister to her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed, and she sat back so that she could see Meg's face in profile with the candlelight.

"Meg, are you alright? You look dreadfully peaky."

Meg shrugged. "It's nothing…I've been practicing pretty hard for the auditions Monday, and I've not had much time to eat with worrying about you. And you're none to talk – you're not looking so wonderful yourself."

The girls grinned at each other, the conversation drawn away from endless nightmares and made-up faerie tales.

"Well, I'd better get back to sleep," Meg said, patting Christine's hand and rising decisively. "Remember, only Mother knows you've been gone – everyone else just thinks you've been in the city with a friend of ours, recovering from a stress illness."

Christine rolled her large brown eyes exasperatedly, laughing that their only acceptable excuse involved her being so weak as to be ill for two weeks from a night of performing.

"Ah well, at least no one was worried about me unnecessarily."

Meg paused at the door, one hand on the frame and the other on the brass handle.

_I was. _

She smiled back at her friend, who's sad eyes apologized, having noticed the pause.

"No," she said, her voice sounding only slightly forced. "No one."

She left with a quiet "Good night," and returned to her dark room.

Once inside and alone, she sank into her makeup chair and buried her face in her hands. She felt lower than worms, lower than the dirt the worms lived in, having so utterly betrayed her best friend's trust for her own gain. She began to cry softly, her hands tightly muffling so as not to worry Christine.

She was so deep in self-hatred that she did not even start as two sets of icy fingers wrapped themselves around her shaking shoulders, did not even look up into the mirror as the kiss of cold porcelain again brushed her ear.

"Well done," came that haunting voice that she had come to both love and despise. 

"Very well done indeed."


	22. After the Arrival

**Sorry I couldn't write this sooner. My brothers locked the computer up repeatedly while my parents were gone by playing Tetris online, and so my mom got mad and said no one was to get on the computer until she got back. I had a lot of stuff I was trying to do, and normally I wouldn't have heeded, but my brothers are real tattletales. So annoying. So, that was two and a half days of no computer.**

**Anyway, it's here now. **

**Now, here. **

**Chapter 18**

**After her Arrival**

The next morning, Meg could not bring herself to get out of bed as soon as she awoke. She lay abed for she knew not how long, listening to the sounds of the Opera House coming to life around her. Now that _Hannibal_ was done, those trying out for _Il Muto_ would see the error of their procrastination and desperately begin rehearsing their audition materials, and it was unlikely that Meg would be able to find an empty space in which to practice alone. Plus, she really didn't feel like getting up.

Unfortunately, she was not afforded the luxury of lying there indefinitely. It was Sunday, and she was soon forced to dress and ready herself for church.

Despite the rumble of distant activity in the Opera, Meg was so wrapped up in her own guilty thoughts that she jumped horribly when a knock came on the wall in front of her. She had just finished fixing her face for the day, and been gazing thoughtlessly into her makeup mirror, when the summons came from the wall dividing Christine's dressing room from her own. Silently, she rose and collected her grey hat and cloak and made her way to her friend's room, wondering what Christine wanted so early.

Upon entering, Meg found her friend already prepared for church in a demure brown gown under her fine black cloak – the only one she owned. It made Meg feel determinedly shabby beside her in her faded wool cloak over a faded blue gown, both too small for her. She had nicer dresses and a nice black cloak of her own, but she did not feel that today she deserved such finery.

Christine had lit more lamps since the previous night, and Meg saw in the light that she was decidedly thinner and much paler, but inwardly Meg cursed that she still managed to look beautiful despite the signs of extended duress.

"At least no one will doubt that you've been ill," she said with a laugh.

Christine laughed with her, though she frowned in mock indignation. "I'm not sure that's much of a compliment," she said, and then her laughter died and a worried, anxious expression clouded her face. "I don't want to go alone…I don't want…questions."

Meg nodded and took her gently by the arm. "It's okay, I won't let them bother you. People will understand if you don't want to talk about 'being ill'."

They met Madame Giry and the other girls in the Grand Foyer, and journeyed together to L'église de Notre Dame de Pitié. There was much commotion in the group at the sight of their long-departed companion, and each one of the women swarmed Christine to offer their congratulations at her recovery.

At Christine's pleading look, Meg warded the well-wishers off with gentle force. "Please," she told them quietly, "She still feels rather week after such a long illness." The surrounding women nodded understandingly and they set off for church, burbling happily in much higher spirits now that their angelic comrade was among their number once again.

As they arrived at the church and took their seats, Meg overheard many of her companions' fervently whispered prayers. Among the prayers for forgiveness, each one of them thanked God for the recovery of their friend. Meg sighed, and began her own prayer. Due to its content, hers was thought, rather than whispered.

_Please forgive me, Father. I have lied to one who is like family to me, betrayed her trust in Your Angels and made her believe in the love of a madman. Please forgive me, God, for my story last night – I was only trying to protect my mother. You understand – after all she's done for me, I have to do all I can to protect her. I only wish…there was another way. I've done my best, Father, and still I sin. May you forgive me, and may she forgive me if she ever finds out. Forgive me for my lies, for my anger for…for everything. Thank you, God, for this beautiful day and the return of my friend. Please forgive us all. I pray for myself, my mother, my friends, my coworkers, my…my father, and… and Erik. It would seem he needs you, God. Please help him. Amen. _

She repeated this plea for forgiveness each time the preacher led them in prayer, each time there was a rustling for hymnals or the line for communion. She had to admit, by the time the benediction was given, that she did feel a little better, but her guilt still hounded her.

Luckily, her companions did not wish to go shopping around the Bois as they had the week before. Lissette had decided not to audition for _Il Muto_, and had to return to the Populaire to pack her things from the dormitory. Marie, Julie, Christine, and Meg all agreed to help her pack, and left the other girls and Madame Giry as they made their own meandering way back to their home on foot.

The day was bright but overcast, and Meg had to squint at the bright glare of the clouds. She was very subdued on the journey, though Christine happily joined in the other girls' bubbling conversation. Meg could tell from the way her face lit up that she had desperately missed the companionship of other young women, and hung at the back of the group so as not to infect the others with her cloudy attitude.

"Miss Daae! Christine!" The shout of a man's voice caused all five girls to turn. Hanging out the window of a carriage was the long-haired, even-complexioned face of Raoul, le Viscount de Chagny.

Christine paled horribly and gasped. She spun and continued walking as though she had not heard him, crashing into the twins as she started forward.

"Christine! Christine, don't leave me again! Please, talk to me!"

"Christine, what—"

But the brunette was already gone, curls flying in the breeze as she sprinted down the nearest alleyway.

"Christine, wait!" Meg thrust her hat and cloak at Marie, who was nearest, and dashed after her, holding her skirt up with both hands. Her longer strides caught her up to the smaller girl easily, but she made no move to stop her. She let Christine run until she was tired, concentrating on remembering the way out of there.

Finally, Christine slowed, and eventually stumbled heavily against a dark stone wall. Her heavy breathing was punctuated with small sobs as she clutched at the wall, her curls disheveled and hanging messily around her flushed face.

Meg too was a bit breathless from their run. "That's…twice…I've run away from that man…" she managed to gasp out with a laugh. Christine didn't even smile.

Meg found an empty crate and sat on it, fanning herself. The cold winter air made her lungs burn painfully. When she caught her breath, she faced Christine, who was still leaning against the wall, and her face became stern.

"So." She said, her voice exactly like her mother's. "Are you going to tell me what that was all about?"

Christine raised her gaze to meet Meg's icy eyes, and Meg saw that the flush had drained from her face and left her once again abnormally pale.

"What didn't you tell me last night?" Meg asked, realizing that there was something she didn't know. Raoul had been concerned for her last time they had spoken, and yet he had not said "How wonderful to see you again," or "I'm glad you're well again." No, he had shouted, "Don't leave me again!" with heartbreak and desperation in his voice, and Christine had fled. "What happened!" Meg demanded, her voice harsh, almost shouting.

Christine flinched and said quietly, "One night, after I…you know…Erik took me up. Above ground, at night. He said it would do me good to have fresh air, to see the sky. I was thrilled. He had rented us a brougham and we rode through the snowy night, and the stars shone overhead and it was so beautiful, and so peaceful, that…that I almost convinced myself I loved him as I said I did. Everything was going wonderfully, and then…as we rode through the Bois de Boulogne, we passed a man walking. I was leaning out of the carriage to see the stars, and he saw me. It was Raoul, and he called out to me with such hope, with such love, with such betrayal, that Erik became desperately angry. He ordered the driver to take us back immediately, and our night was over, and I was not permitted to look back. I don't want to face him. He knows it was me, and I don't want to explain what I was doing or who I was with. And now that I've run away, how will I explain that?" She began to cry softly.

_Jealous man_, Meg thought bitterly of Erik. She glared momentarily at Christine's tears, and then rose and put a comforting arm around her.

"Just say you were out with the friend of Mama's, who thought it would be good for you to have a bit of fresh air in your illness. And that you were embarrassed of your sickness, of seeing him and turning away, that you didn't want to face him. Raoul really seems like a good man, Christine, I'm sure he would believe you. I spoke with him about you, you know, a week ago. He was terribly worried about you. He cares for you very much." And she told him of their previous encounter, though she did not elaborate on why she had run away.

When she finished her brief tale, she looked around the cold dark alleyway and gave a small shiver. "We had better find the others and go help Lissette pack. Even in the daylight these streets aren't the safest for women like us."

Christine nodded, and the pair set back through the winding streets, eventually finding the monolithic front of the Populaire rising in front of them.

_Home_, Meg thought with a sense of comfortable warmth as they climbed the sweeping marble steps up to the main entrance and entered the well-lit Grand Foyer. The pair climbed the grand staircase up a level and then navigated the back stairs and hallways to reach the dressing room where the others were already waiting for them.

They spent an enjoyable hour packing and talking, mainly recapping events of the past two weeks for Christine's benefit. The mood was light and happy despite the imminent departure of one of their number.

After all of Lissette's things had been folded and packed in her suitcase, the five girls all made their way back down to the front entrance, where they hailed a passing carriage and loaded Lissette's trunk. They all hugged her fondly, reminding her to come and visit them sometime.

"I'm sure I'll see you before the new year," Lissette said, ever the gossip. "I've heard Messrs. Andre and Firmin are planning a Masquerade Ball to usher in their first year as managers, and you can be certain I'll attend that!"

And with that last surprising bit of information, she kissed each of them on the cheek, stepped lightly into the carriage, gave one last wave, and she was off.

**I know this is short, and the next bit'll probably be short too, but I want to get this much up, since I haven't kept up my rapid posting pace lately. Sorry. I'm still working on the next bit, but I'm almost done with it. It'll be up real soon, I promise.**


	23. Music and Men

**Hey, people, I love you for reviewing (if you did. I know loads of you didn't, but hey, you're still reading). Anyway, you really, really need to check out my art, p3pp3rmint. deviantart. com, 'cause I've got loads of story art there and it just might not make your eyes bleed. Might. **

**Anyway, you're here for story. So, here. **

**Music and Men**

They waved until the cab had bounced out of sight along the square, and then the four remaining friends dispersed. The twins waved farewell and said they wanted to find an empty dance hall to practice their audition material, Christine admitted that she really wanted a bath, and Meg made her way to the main stage to see how orchestra auditions were running.

M Charles Reyer looked up from the score of Act III, scene II of _Il Muto_, rubbing his temples in frustration as he tried not to glare at the flutist in front of him. She gave him a hopeful look and he sighed, wondering how best to tell her that the tears in his eyes were no compliment to the emotion in her playing. He dabbed his high forehead with a white pocket handkerchief and took a deep breath, then paused as a flicker of movement caught his eye. Someone was exiting the backstage corridor stage left. He smiled as he recognized the tall, pale figure. It seemed that dear little Meg had finally taken him up on his repeated offer to listen to rehearsal. For the girl's sake, though, he wished the auditions were running a bit more smoothly.

As though she could feel him watching her, Meg looked up suddenly and net his gaze. She smiled broadly and waved, though M Reyer still caught a momentary glance that greatly worried him. Before her smile, he saw that Meg's face was pale and drawn, worried and sad, even confused. He hadn't seen her without her stage makeup for several days, and the sight of her now in that pale simple dress made him start in surprised at how much thinner and paler and frailer she looked. Goodness, what had she been doing? Surely her friend's absence hadn't affected her that badly! But her smile still lit her face, and her wave to him was genuinely happy, so he reluctantly turned his attentions back to his hopeful but none-to-talented flutist.

Meg let her false grin s lip off her face as soon as M Reyer turned back to his stumbling musician. In the shadows of stage right, she found a thin spiraling iron staircase leading up to the maze of flies and catwalks above the stage. She climbed it swiftly, one hand clutching her skirts high to keep them from tripping her up, the other pulling herself quickly up the banister. In no time, she reached the main walk, where wheels and tie-posts were stationed to help raise and lower the magnificent backdrops.

Stealing silently along the catwalks like a pale shadow, Meg walked quickly to one of the small rope bridges that extended out to the bottom of the fringe curtain below the glided framework of golden angels that surrounded the stage. She was nearly directly above the orchestra pit, as close as one could be in fact, and this was her favorite place to come when she wanted to be alone.

She lay down on the bridge with a graceful fold, setting the rope-supported planks swinging slightly. She rested her head on one outstretched arm, her face and hair dangling slightly over the side of the dark wood so that she could see down into the orchestra pit. She gave a small wave as the shining bald head of M Reyer tilted back to reveal a grandfatherly smile in her direction as the brunette flutist in front of him rose and traded seats with another woman. Then she closed her eyes and let her head empty of all except the gentle sway of the catwalk below her.

He watched her from the shadows as she lay, wondering faintly if she had fallen asleep after she remained motionless for several minutes. Usually the chorus girls couldn't seem to sit still for thirty seconds at a time, but this one seemed quite content to lie in the shadows and listen to the fumbling flutist below.

She was an odd one, this Meg Giry. She danced with five times the reserve of any of the other girls, even though she had as fine a body as he had seen on a girl of seventeen. She was tall and thin, but still shapely. His dark eyes roved hungrily over her long form, focusing on the curves accentuated by the fact that she was lying on her side, the single bared bony ankle that poked out from between the layers of her faded dress. He licked his lips and wiped his sweaty brow. He wanted her, this odd young woman, and he was accustomed to taking whatever or whomever he wanted.

Misery consumed her. Some voice in the back of her mind that reminded her strongly of her mother chided that she was becoming quite dull, constantly moping around as though someone had died. In reality, she should be thankful. No one had been harmed, and Christine had been returned safely.

_But nothing is as it should be,_ Meg bitterly told that small voice, feeling cold and empty. _I…I feel so…_

But she never got the chance to think up an adjective miserable enough to suit her mood. Suddenly she was interrupted by the heavy thud of a booted footfall on the catwalks, and her eyes shot open to reveal Joseph Buquet standing a mere three paces away on the next section of planking.

Several expressions flashed across her face as she regarded the greasy fellow before her. The first was shock. She was surprised a man as large as he could move so soundlessly – or perhaps she had simply not been paying attention. He did have lots of practice, after all. The second was disgust. Unbidden, the slightest sneer marred her face as her eyes took in his dirty, greasy mass. Closely following the distaste came hatred. She hated the way this man insisted on imposing his perversions on her fellow dancers – and not just the elder ones. The fourth was fear. After all, she was all alone in the darkness with this man, who in all reality was actually quite dangerous. The fifth and final expression was defiance. She would not become another notch on this horrid stagehand's bedpost no matter what he tried. This was _no_ time to mess with her, and she refused to be seen as defenseless.

Now feigning casualness, she lay her head back down on her arm and shifted slightly to settle into a more comfortable position. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice as uncaring as she could make it. She thought some harshness still crept into the tone despite her best efforts, though.

"A pretty girl like you shouldn't be all alone up here," Buquet replied, slicking his greasy hair back in a sad attempt at suave behavior.

"I believe it's perfectly safe," Meg quipped back at him sternly, still not looking at him.

"I believe you look as though you could use some company," he shot back, taking one heavy step towards her.

Without warning, her foot shot out in a forceful kick, her heel pausing quivering a hair's breadth from a very sensitive area of Buquet's anatomy. Years of ballet training were good for something after all.

"Take one more step and I'll scream."

She looked at him finally, and her cold hard eyes mirrored the deadly ice in her voice.

Buquet immediately took a step back, a flicker of fear crossing his pudgy features. That could have been very painful indeed… And her eyes scared him…so large and deadly. He had the strangest feeling that if he didn't look away soon, he might fall into them, and he didn't know if he would drown or freeze to death first.

As soon as he stepped back, Meg lowered her leg and rested her head on her arm once more. She would show him that he couldn't scare her…even if her heart _was_ thumping so rapidly that it outpaced the quick tempo of the audition music below by several beats per minute.

But Joseph Buquet was not defeated so easily. He would let the girl think she had won this time, but just she wait. He had decided – he would have that little ballerina. The sight of those long legs, even thrust at him so dangerously, had aroused a need in him that had never been denied, not yet in all his years of employment at the Populaire. Even with those startling eyes her face was beautiful, and he meant to have her. He would wait if he had to, but he would have her in the end.


	24. Curiosity and Cold

**I should have stuck this one at the end of the last post, where I intended it to go, but I thought it'd be longer, and I really need to end it where I did. Sorry, you get an "even-shorter-than-my-usual-short-posts" short post this time. Dommage. **

**Oh, and since there seems to be confusion – that section of male pov thoughts in the last chapter was Buquet lurking in the shadows. Erik wasn't in the chap at all. **

**Sorry for the confusion. **

**Keep reviewing. **

**Curiosity and Cold**

Meg remained motionless for several minutes after Buquet's large shape had melded into the shadows, but she found that the music of the auditions had lost its magic. Resisting the urge to sigh irritably in case the stagehand still lurked in the shadows, she pushed and pulled herself upright with the catwalk's thin railings. She meandered slowly back down to her dressing room, vaguely intending to try to sleep but changed her mind as she entered the corridor. She would visit Christine, though she didn't know what good that would do her spirit.

Upon reaching her friend's door, however, there was no answer to her quiet knock. Meg hesitantly tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked. She opened the door onto a dark room, and silently slipped inside.

A wave of dread washed over her. _Please let her just be in the baths, or practicing. Please don't let her be with that monster…_

As the room was undeniably empty, Meg was just about to turn and leave when an open book beside Christine's small bed caught her eye. Always an easy target for books, she picked the thin volume up and examined the cover. It read "Diary" in flowing script, under which was penned the name "Christine Daae" in faded, childish script.

_Oops_, Meg thought, and hurriedly laid the book back on the floor, when the sight of her own name made her think twice. Curiosity tugged at her mind, and she shot a last guilty glance towards the door before picking up the small book again and reading the open passage.

– _does make sense, after all. An Angel would be dead, and he would be without his powers save for music since he was cast out. I'm glad I had Meg to explain it to me – otherwise I might have turned my back on a true Blessing. Erik really should have picked her to watch over, she's so much cleverer and kinder than me. I'm sure she would never have treated him as I would. I'm so lucky to have a friend who knows all the myths, who can explain the situation to someone like me. Now that I think about it, Erik's home wasn't so bad, and the time spent with him could almost be considered enjoyable. He was very respectful to me—_

Only when the first tear dotted the page and blurred the barely-dry ink did Meg realize she was crying. Hot tears of shame burned in her eyes as she hurriedly blotted the page with a corner of her skirts and set the book in its rightful place.

So Christine thought herself lucky, to have a liar like herself as a best friend. Seeing the naïve trust on that page made Meg feel as ashamed as if she had abandoned a starving child to the mercies of a gang of street thieves. How could she have done this to her best friend?

She fled the room with her eyes still brimming with hot tears. She turned right as she left the dark room, heading away from her dressing room and towards the wooden staircase at the end of the hall. Up and up she climbed, heedless of the maids and seamstresses she passed in her hurry. When she could climb no higher, she burst out of a thick double oak door and out into a starry winter's night.

This was the roof of the Opera Populaire, a snow-covered terrace that housed magnificent sculptures visible from all around Paris. The god Apollo playing his lyre, a wild stallion rearing on its hind legs, a voluptuous Aphrodite clad only in a bronze veil and more stationed themselves all about the rooftop, just another testament to the grandeur of this monolithic building.

The chilly night air was a shock to Meg's skin and lungs that snapped her out of her haze of sorrow, and she leaned weakly against the closed door to the tenth story. Wind whipped her hair across her face and tugged at her pale dress, reminding her that in her rush she had forgotten a cloak. Shivering, she hurried towards the giant statue of the bronze stallion and stationed herself under its front hooves, shielding herself from the wind by its massive frame.

She drew her knees up to her face and wrapped her arms tightly around them, staring up at the clear night sky. She felt very, very small and insignificant under all those stars, and very, very lost.

How would she ever be forgiven for the lie she had told – by Christine, by God, by herself? _I know the myths, she said,_ Meg told herself bitterly, _oh, yes! My favorite is the one where a dark and sinister corpse steals a bright and innocent child, takes her down to his underground kingdom of death, and imprisons her as his bride. Only, in that one, Zeus's laws said she had to stay – but in this version I've convinced the girl that she _wants_ to stay, and is safe in doing so! Mon Dieu! _

Her angry thoughts chased each other around her head as her icy eyes stared unseeingly at the clouds that slowly hid the innumerable stars from view. She soon became tired, her limbs heavy and mind slow in the way common to the aftermath of adrenaline. She lay down, curled into a small ball under the massive body of the bronze horse, feet tightly wrapped in her skirts and her arms tucked tight against her body for warmth. She rested her head on one elbow and stared out over the balcony, letting her mind drift over the Parisian skyline. It was so very cold…

By the time it began snowing, Meg Giry was fast asleep.


	25. Auditions and an Accident

I'm so sorry this took so long to get up. Pre-band started at my high school, and I've been too worn out to do anything but sleep once I get home. I live in Louisiana, if you didn't know, and the heat index has been well over a hundred every day, and we're outside marching sometimes from eight to two. So exhausting! And then school started last week, and .. .I can't believe it's been so long since I updated! OMG, I'm so sorry, guys! I can't believe this took so long to write! But enough excuses. You get a nice long chapter now. Very pivotal. A new stage in Meg (well, everyone, really) 's life is about to begin.

Everything that follows is a result of what you see here.

Oh, and I'm sorry Meg's been so boring moping about, but it was necessary to get her to do what she just did at the end of that chapter. It's a catalyst. Really. She's not just a one-dimensional depressed character like you so often find.

**But honestly, don't you think you'd be mopey in her situation? **

…

…

**Chapter 20 **

**Auditions and an Accident**

"Meg! Meg, wake up! Please, wake up!"

Meg was roused by an urgent shaking and a high, worried voice. Her icy eyes shot open suddenly, startling Christine Daae, who was sitting beside her and shaking her by the shoulders.

"Meg, auditions start in an hour and I need you to help me practice!"

"Sure, Christine, just let me get dressed and I'll be out in a minute," was Meg's automatic, unthinking response.

"Okay," the brunette said anxiously, and exited the room with curls bouncing excitedly.

Meg blinked after her as the door closed, her eyes narrowed and mind fuzzy. Something wasn't quite right about all this…

The rooftop!

Meg vaulted out of bed and scrambled over to her large mirror. Sure enough, she was still wearing her faded blue church dress of the day before. Yesterday's makeup was smeared in dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her dress and hair were still damp in the folds from…snow? Yes, that was it. She had fallen asleep, and it was cold, and it had started snowing!

But how on earth had she ended up back in her dressing room? She remembered reading the diary, rushing up to the fresh air of the roof, the cold night, laying down under the statue…then nothing. There was a definite gap that did not explain how she had returned to the warmth of her dressing room.

_Erik_, she thought angrily, the name feeling odd even in her thoughts. The mental inflection was irritable even though he had done her a favor. She would be quite happy never to accept favors from that despicable character. She for one would not relish the moral duty of being indebted to him for a rare act of kindness. Assuming, of course, that it had been he who had moved her from the dangerous night air.

But Meg had no time to worry about that now. Hastily donning her cleanest leotard and skirt and refastening her hair, she prepared for the auditions that would run all morning. She felt incredibly stiff from her night in the cold, and winced as she leaned down too quickly to twine the laces of her ballet slippers up her calves. She had a lot of stretching to do before her tryout came around.

She found Christine waiting for her in the main dance hall, a well-lit, clean, mirrored room with doors opening onto a platform by the stage's catwalks. The brunette was practicing a series of tight turns in front of the long mirrored walls, her head whipping around dizzyingly to constantly review her posture in her reflection. Meg stood behind her and joined the move, able to watch her own reflection over Christine's head as she kept perfect pace with her despite not having stretched. Then Christine ran through the audition song she had chosen while Meg sat on the floor before her and stretched, listening intently and occasionally offering suggestions. Not that there were mistakes to correct – Meg's comments were more like compliments about different aspects of the singing. Christine's angelic voice stopped all other rehearsals in the hall and required no input to improve, and every other woman present suddenly found her heart a lot heaver and her outlook on the auditions a lot bleaker.

As their rushed private rehearsal progressed, Meg's stomach slowly sank lower and lower. She began to feel as though she could be violently ill any minute, and it surprised her. She rarely became so nervous as to be physically ill, but she reminded herself that she hadn't eaten a decent meal in nearly two weeks. The mere thought of food caused her stomach to lurch and her head to throb.

She felt steadily worse over their hour's rehearsal. Twice their vocal harmonies were interrupted by a violent bout of coughing from the alto voice, a deep congestion that surprised even its owner.

"I must have caught Christine's illness," Meg told the other apologetically after the second interruption. Christine shot her a puzzled look when none of the others were looking, but Meg met her dark gaze without expression. Perhaps, in a way, it was true…

Far too soon, a grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eleven o'clock, and it was time for auditions to begin. The chorus and minor roles would audition first, then those aspiring to principal roles would try out after that.

Meg led a line of fifteen young women through the stage-side door of the dance hall, down a winding iron backstage staircase, through the layers of opened curtains lining stage left, down the stage front stairway, and into a row of crimson velvet seats several yards in front of a group of young men there for the same purpose. She hoped none of them noticed the way she gripped the handrails until her knuckles shone white, or the way she swayed slightly before lowering herself into her seat.

The girls sat in silence, not looking at each other and desperately trying to keep their breakfasts down. Nervous swallows were clearly audible as the judges filed into the front row – M DuGaulle, M Reyer, and Mme Giry. M Andre, M Firmin, Mme DuLevre, and assorted staff and crew members were present as spectators, which only increased the unease of the performers.

Worst of all, however, was when Carlotta, Piangi, and their servants, co-primaries, and assorted hangers-on arrived. The large group swept in the enormous double doors and streamed down the aisles, chattering loudly. Teenagers and adults alike swiveled in their chairs to glare disapprovingly at the noisy group, save for those young ones who could only stare nervously ahead of them.

Once the judges had arranged their quills, inkwells, and comment sheets to their liking, M DuGaulle rose and addressed the frightened knot of young men and women seated to the right of the stage.

"Is everyone present? Is everyone ready?"

There was a weak round of mumbled affirmatives.

DuGaulle did not seem to notice. "Excellent," he said with a smile, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet excitedly. "Well, just come up as soon as you're ready, and we'll begin!"

There was a collective ill-sounding groan. No one wanted to be the first to mount the stage before some many judges and onlookers.

"Go," Meg hissed to Christine through clenched teeth, prodding her forcefully in the side.

"_What_?" she hissed back, doe-eyes wide with nerves.

"Go first. It'll look good."

"No way!"

"Go!"

"You go!"

"You've got nothing to be afraid of!"

"Neither do you!"

"Just _GO_!"

"Ouch!"

Christine leapt to her feet as Meg pinched her side hard. Immediately, she realized what she had done, and whirled to glare at the blonde still seated smugly beside her. Meg smiled and shrugged apologetically, until a brief spasm of coughing shook her.

"Ah, Miss Daae," M Reyer's relieved voice was kindly and reassuring. "Thank you. Now, if you'll just step up on the stage…" He gave a preparatory nod to the violinist and flutist seated hidden in the orchestra pit. They let out a clear double tuning note as Christine walked uncertainly to center stage, shook out her arms, and hummed along. At the clear note that issued forth, the judges and onlookers fell silent and straightened up in their seats.

All save for Carlotta Guidichelli, that is.

"Finally, the chit remembers her place," she told Piangi and a well-practiced accented stage whisper. "Possibly now she will stop giving herself airs and attempting to steal the true roles and accept that she must fade into the shadows like the child she is." Piangi and a few others seated nearby nodded sycophantically, but most of her followers' eyes were still trained on the pink-clad vision onstage.

Meg gazed straight ahead and inhaled sharply in an effort to bite back a scathing reply, and promptly began coughing again. She didn't want to break Christine's concentration, so she clamped both hands over her mouth and let her whole body shake with the violent spasms. She blinked back a wave of green across her vision until she could see the stage again. Slowly, the coughs subsided and she lowered her hands, though the constricting pain in her head and chest did not fade completely.

"Name?" M DuGaulle asked in a booming, businesslike voice.

Christine's intake of breath was audible throughout the auditorium. "Christine Daae."

"Auditioning for?"

"Now – Chorus."

There was a brief murmur from the onlookers at her "now," but M DuGaulle did not seem to hear it.

"Very well. Monsieur Reyer?"

M Reyer inclined his shiny bald head at the director, then stood and addressed Christine.

"We'll do you voice auditions first, mademoiselle." Christine nodded, the very picture of serenity. "What number would you like to sing?"

Christine's voice was calm and even as she responded, "The Light of Day."

_A predictable choice for one who had been trapped underground for two weeks,_ Meg had thought when she first learned of Christine's choice. Like all of the songs in the romance, Meg was disparaging of the lyrics, but the option for decent songs was severely limited, and she assumed that the lyrics could have some sort of special meaning to someone in Christine's situation.

M Reyer gave the smallest of starts when he heard the Daae girl's choice of song. "The Light of Day" was a solo for the Countess, the lead soprano part, with only minor backup from the chorus. Somehow, he didn't think that Christine meant to sing backup.

As he cued the musicians and Christine began to sing, Meg leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Her stomach was swimming nastily, and she fought to keep the taste of bile out of her mouth. She blamed nerves for the disturbance, even though she hadn't eaten since lunch the day before.

…_The warm embrace of night,_

_All the fears and all the fright,_

_They hold no sway_

_All melt away_

_Under the light of day…_

Meg allowed the beautiful, haunting notes to fill her mind and push away all thoughts of physical discomfort. She could feel ill at another time – right now she needed to concentrate.

Christine finished two verses of the song as the judges sat raptly in their chairs. When the instruments fell silent, there was a moment of stunned quiet in the auditorium. Then a rush of applause flooded the room, and Christine smiled sheepishly around at them all despite the bitter or ill looks on the faces of her competitors.

Briskly, Madame Giry stood and strode to stand beside M Reyer in front of the stage. "That was very well sung, my child. Very well sung indeed. But as you are trying out for…chorus…" She sounded highly disbelieving. "it is essential that you dance as well as you sing. Which pattern have you chosen?"

Christine told her, and the ballet mistress signaled the two musicians before her to take up the song at a slow tempo.

No one really watched Christine's dance auditions. The young women were too busy trying to prod each other into volunteering next, each certain that to attempt to follow such an act would spell certain doom for one's score.

Once Christine had passably performed a short series of dance moves with very little prompting from Madame Giry, she descended the stairs to as thunderous applause as a small crowd could make. It died out very quickly, however, as the young dancers all stared around at one another, wondering who among them would be brave enough to audition next.

Christine walked quickly over to Meg, relief all over her face. She held out her arms for a hug, and Meg rose to embrace her for a job well done.

In one obviously planned movement, Christine seized Meg's hand, yanked Meg out of her chair, spun her around, and shoved her forcefully towards the stage. Meg cursed herself mentally for not being suspicious of payback! She shot a glare back over her shoulder as Christine patted her back smugly and called "Good luck," with an evil cheer in her voice. Meg sneered at her briefly, refusing to share the joke, and barely avoided flinching as M DuGaulle called out brightly, "Ah, wonderful! Very well, my dear, step right up, and let's see what you've got!"

Meg gulped as she ascended the stairs, forcing herself to take slow, deep, open-throated breaths. She had to support herself on the stairs' oak handrail, and clutched her skirts to stop her hands shaking as she strode briskly to center stage.

"Name?" M DuGaulle questioned, his voice falsely bright.

"Meg Giry."

"Auditioning for?"

"Maid." Her mother's eyes widened slightly behind their spectacles in surprise, but she nodded in satisfaction. So the child finally showed some initiative…or backbone.

"Very well, then. M Reyer?"

The old man's smile to Meg calmed her greatly. Surely this grandfatherly old man would never let her fail, if he believed in her.

"What will you be singing now, my dear?"

"'A Servant Knows'." It was not the one she had practiced most, but it fit the mood of the play and the role of maid, which was more important in an audition. M Reyer cued the musicians, and the song began.

_The lady thinks that she can hide_

_Her secrets and her lies._

_But with scrubbing_

_And with dusting – _

_The servants all are wise._

_The master knew our talents well_

_And took his special care_

_But with straightening and with washing, _

_A servant's always there._

It was sung in an upbeat tempo, and Meg's illness vanished instantly as she sang. She gave herself to the music, leaning forward impishly, hands on hips, gesturing, singing through a wide, knowing smile. And it was startlingly close to perfect.

After a key change and a few more verses, Meg ended in a sweeping high note and a beaming smile. There was a stretch of silence win which meg took several deep breaths, still smiling, and then Christine leapt to her feet with a cry of "Brava!" and applause erupted throughout the auditorium.

_What was that?_ The onlookers muttered to each other under cover of applause. Quiet, shy, dark Meg Giry had just delivered one of the brightest and skillful auditions they were likely to hear all morning. None of them felt they could match it! True, it was nowhere near the angelic quality of Christine's fine soprano, but it was more than anyone save Madame Giry had ever expected her to perform. Even Meg didn't know what possessed her to open herself up so to the performance. Perhaps recent events had frustrated her so that she seized control of her life through the only manner possible, forcing herself to be recognized for doing _right_ despite her habit of protective shyness. Now that the euphoria of the music had faded, Meg found herself blushing furiously. She pushed back the nausea that threatened to resurface and focused her eyes on her mother, silently begging her to begin the dance auditions as soon as possible.

Mme Giry caught the glance, the pride still glinting in her icy eyes. She stood and straightened her skirts again, walking up beside an equally beaming M Reyer. The pair exchanged congratulatory glances, and then Mme Giry shot a scorching look around the auditorium until silence reluctantly fell.

"And what would you like to dance to?"

"The Spring Ballet." That was the main ballet number of the opera, featured in the opening of Act III as the coming of springtime, and a fairly detailed example pattern had been included in the audition materials. That would be one dance she would participate in no matter what part she landed, and so she felt it would be prudent to learn that one first.

There was a brief pause as the musicians arranged their music, and then they struck up a soft, swelling piece, beautiful and flowing, the perfect sound to springtime breezes. Meg slowly raised up on her toes, her arms over her head, then began the delicate dance. She swayed, spun, leapt with the grace of a flower blowing in the wind, each footfall landing perfectly on the beat and each turn perfectly executed. Her head and stomach began to protest as she spun in a tight series, but her dancing never faltered. Then she stepped out of the spin and leapt onto her right foot, balancing en point, and her ankle turned under her and she collapsed.

There was a gasp from the crowd and a braying shout of laughter from Carlotta as Meg's knee, bum, elbow, and palm thwacked the stage with a resounding _thud_. The flutist stopped in surprise, but the violinist continued without interruption. Meg struggled to her feet too quickly to finish the dance, and her head spun with green dots. Luckily, there were only a few measures left in the dance, and no more spins were required. Meg felt her face reddening with shame and nervous sweat slicking her body. How could she have done that? She knew she would mess up, what possessed her to try such a hard dance for auditions. She was so upset that she nearly fell again on a simple pirouette, stumbling sideways in an effort to catch herself.

And then the audition was finally over, and her mother bade her be seated once again. She crossed the stage, her face still glowing, until she reached the stairs. She dimly heard Carlotta's derisive speech, but it was like the angry buzzing of a bee in the distance, and she couldn't make sense of it. there seemed to be something wrong with her ears…and her eyes. As she looked at the staircase descending the stage, the steps seemed to stretch and compress under her gaze – what she could see of them through a curtain of green. She was unable to focus, but she had to get off that stage. She had to get away… to anywhere…

She took one step down, and her pink-slippered foot slipped off the edge of the carpeted step and she slid down the entire staircase. There were screams from the nearest women in the audience, but they too were dim and fading. There was a great pain in her head as it hit the corner of the bottom step with a _crack_, and the green and black stars burst in front of her vision. The last thing she knew before she passed out was dark shapes looming over her…frightened voices calling her name….and then everything went black.


	26. Finding and Falling

**Again guys, sorry this is taking me so long. I've been able to write during school a bit, but I've been having so much crap to do. Thanks for waiting, and still reading. Though, I really would love it if you guys reviewed. Last time, twenty-four people read before anyone reviewed. Honestly, guys, I'd spent ages on that chapter, same at this one. My hope is that maybe if I give you Eriky-goodness, then you'll review. So how about it? **

**Love, **

**Paige Turner.**

**P.S. check out Hidden Desires fanart at p3pp3rmint. deviantart. Com. Please. **

**P.P.S. Thanks to Sarrin/ The Unrequited Lover for her continuing support of my art and writings. Go check out her stuff, because she's really good and so nice to me. **

…

…

**Chapter 21**

**Finding and Falling**

It had been well after midnight when he found her.

Since Christine's departure, it had been nearly unbearable to remain in his home. The scent of her still seemed to linger on everything, masking the stench of death he had grown so accustomed. He would sit down to play or compose and recall how she would kneel beside him, and his muses left him. He lay down in his coffin to rest, all other methods of relaxation denied him, and he would remember the way she had shuddered when she first realized where he slept, and sleep too eluded him.

It was steadily driving him mad.

He had gone up to the roof to escape the memories that now haunted his home like so many ghosts. He took his time, strolling through his great triumph, enjoying the bygone memories of its construction, Garnier's companionship, the accomplishment of knowing that his mother's dream had been realized at last – by his own hands. Even if any had been awake to see him, they would have missed him for the catlike silence of his steps, the way his dark suit melded into the shadows.

Before he knew it, he had reached the rooftop. He climbed the steep stairs that led to the level beyond the tenth floor and silently opened the small door. He stepped out into the blessed embrace of the night sky and breathed in the cool night air. Abandoning all precautions in the gentle solitude, he removed his mask and bared his face to the heavens, letting snow flurries brush his death's head in the rising breeze. Ah, the freedom of darkness…

Snow crunched under his boots as he strode to the edge of the roof, leaning over to gaze upon the sleeping world of man so far below. So small, so insignificant. Had any human ever matched his mind, his accomplishments? He could have been one of them, gladly lived among them and benefited them, but everyone chose to cast him out for sake of his appearance, with no regard to his mental capacity. They shunned him, and now he felt no obligation to their kind.

He turned away from the edge and leaned against the wrought-iron railing, sending the collected snow tumbling down to the streets so far below. The wind picked up, tugging his black cloak viciously. He scanned the snow-covered rooftop, his eyes lovingly caressing the statues that he had put the finer touches on himself. Mighty Apollo, god of music; lovely Aphrodite, goddess of love; a rearing battle stallion, it's eyes rolling madly…

His gaze swept past and onto a majestic merman before his mind registered something unusual about the cast bronze horse. There seemed to be something dark beneath it, as though someone had stuffed a bundle of old clothing under the stallion's hooves and forgotten it. A bundle with damp tendrils of blonde hair…

A horrible wave of unease swept through his body. Had someone murdered a woman and stowed the body here? The audacity – and they would blame the Phantom, naturally! But no… now that he approached the shape, he saw the smallest rise and fall of the curve of a back as the woman breathed… so she wasn't dead. That was good. Even after all of the horrible crimes he had seen and committed, he still hated to think of brutality being done to a woman. It just never seemed… right.

He approached the still form cautiously, trying to identify it. The woman was tall and blonde, clad in a worm and faded blue dress. She wore no hat or cloak, and a layer of snow had blown under the horse and settled across her very thin frame. Her face was buried in the crook of one arm, hiding it from view and sheltering it from the accumulating snowdrift. Unafraid that she would wake to the chill of his gloved hands, he gently but firmly pulled her arm away so that he might confirm his rising suspicions about her identity.

As her bloodless face was revealed, Erik dropped her arm and stepped back with a growl. He should have known it would be that meddlesome Giry brat! He couldn't even climb his own creation for a breath of fresh air without encountering that curious child! His hand was on his Punjab lasso before he realized it, stretching the catgut between his bony hands at the thought of winding it tight about her thin neck…

Abruptly he realized what he was thinking, and dropped the lasso as though it were a writhing snake. How had he allowed that wave of anger to carry him so far? Had he not been concerned for her only seconds before, worried to illness that a young woman had been harmed. He tucked his mask into a large pocket of his cloak and passed a hand over his blue-veined brow, unsettled that he had been so willing to perform the act that moments ago he had feared had been done. He took another, closer look at the snow-covered girl, and realized that her exposed face and hands had a definite bluish tinge to them.

He could have kicked himself. While he had been swinging between concern and irrational anger, the poor girl was clearly suffering from hypothermia. There was no telling how long she had been out in the elements, or how much snow she had inhaled. Now that he looked more closely, she looked exhausted and unhealthy, as though she had not been eating or sleeping properly – though he laughed at himself as he pronounced his prognosis. As though he were one to lecture on eating and sleeping properly – he who lived off of music for days or weeks at a time, never having the time to waste on the pointless luxuries of food or slumber. But the girl before him had a frail, wasted look, and her worn gown hung off of her sleeping form even though it was tailored for a very thin wearer already. This couldn't be good.

Still it would not do to have the chit die on him. She was quite clever; he realized that. She had handled her deception to his Angel magnificently, quick to think, thorough in her stories, unflinching in her duties. As long as he could hold her attention, her loyalty would remain determined and steadfast, and one clever servant was worth and entire fleet of dull ones.

Sighing, as this was not turning out to be at all the relaxation he had planned, Erik shrugged off his thick black cloak and draped it over one arm as he gently brushed away the layer of snow that was soaking through her worn dress. As he brushed off her tangled blonde mass of curls, the pulled-back cuff of his sleeve caused the bared skin of his wrist to brush her pale face. Her skin was cold even to his death-chilled veins, and he frowned. Surely she should not be so cold…

As she had not stirred at his touch, he thought he might not wake her with another. Thoroughly oblivious to the large amount of exposed bluing skin, he lay one ear delicately against her hest, listening for her heartbeat. There – it was thick and slow, but still even. What he was surprised to realize scared him, though, was the deep rattle that accompanied each of her slow, shallow breaths. She needed warmth, and fast…

He spread his cloak over her thin frame and hefted her into his arms. She was surprisingly light for her height, and years of scaling pulley ropes and catwalks had kept him astonishingly fit for his age, but he still nearly dropped her of surprised as she snuggled close to his chest in her sleep.

_She's just seeking my warmth_, he told himself firmly, but he still shuddered at the touch. He had no warmth to spare, and he was not used to his presence being tolerated, much less needed. _She'd never come near me if she were awake…_

As he carried the unconscious girl back into the shelter of the Populaire and down the many flights of stairs back to her dressing room, his thoughts lingered briefly on their combined situation. It was odd – he rarely considered of late how his action affected others. Life became a matter of achieving his own end regardless of the consequences for others. But now he found himself pondering how he had affected the young woman currently trying to burrow into his torso.

Perhaps it had been a bit harsh to order the new managers to replace her mother, he reflected briefly. Madame Giry had always been the most respectful of Box Attendants, never intruding on his privacy and obediently delivering his missives to the management. She really did need the money, poor woman, and he didn't particularly want some new woman who could not be trusted to mind her own business instead of searching about for proof of the Phantom. No, it just would not do. He would have to order her reinstated… but not too soon. He needed to ensure the child's obedience for at least a few weeks more… at least until the start of the next opera.

Which reminded him – auditions for chorus and principals of _Il Muto_ were to be held the following day. He had overseen the orchestra auditions that morning, and was for the most part pleased by M Reyer's selections. There were one or two new players Erik believed M Reyer had chosen in hope of their potential, particularly a stumbling young man as second bassoon, but overall the selections sounded promising.

He had promised Christine he would be at the auditions. He knew from her renewed rapture that Meg's Giry's services had been well worth their inconvenience. His weary heart soared as his Angel regarded her mirror with a reverence nearing the admiration with which she used to think of him. She apologized for doubting him, for her treatment of him in his home, begged his forgiveness, and implored his support at her auditions. As an afterthought, she had also asked him to watch over Meg's tryout, as thanks for setting her back on her true path.

Well, he supposed he was doing that now whether he wanted to or not, he thought as he reached the blonde's dressing room door. Stooping so that he could reach the handle while still carrying the girl, he jiggled the brass knob with no effect. Drat. Why did the girl always have to lock her door? Didn't she trust her fellow performers?

He placed his right foot high on the door and supported Meg with his right knee as he fished in his jacket pocket for his _little pouch of life and death_. He opened the crimson drawstring bag carefully with his teeth and withdrew his _key of life_, a skeleton key that would open any one of the hundreds of doors in and below the Opera. He swiftly unlocked the door and nearly fell into the room as the door opened underneath his foot. He regained his balance quickly and resettled the girl in his arms as he quickly strode into the room, his golden eyes glinting scarlet in the darkness like twin drops of blood as he ominously locked the door behind them. If any of the other chorus girls had seen him, they would have assumed that Meg Giry had died after a life of sin, and was now being carried down to Hell personally by the Devil in an evening suit. Despite his demonic appearance, however, he carried the sleeping woman over to her small bed and deposited her gently atop the worn mattress. Her skin was still abnormally chilled, so he pulled his discarded blankets tightly up to her chin and tucked them around her. The smallest smile tilted the golden eyes behind the mask as she burrowed into the blankets. She looked so very innocent for one who caused him so much irritation…so very young…

He left her in the darkness and quitted the room by way of her mirror, following the maze of hidden corridors up to a secret panel that would bring him near Box Five on the Grand Tier. Perhaps he would catch a bit of sleep before the next day's auditions began. He had been too restless to sleep since his Angel had left the day previous, and to his surprise he was beginning to feel a bit tired. There would be several hours in which o sleep in his Box's comfortable velvet armchair before the auditions started.

He reached the shadows of Box Five in silence. The light of the few gas lamps on the ground level was nearly entirely blocked by the Box's thick curtains, allowing only a soft glow that was more than enough for Erik's cat's eyes to navigate by. He settled into the armchair with a comfortable sigh, feeling every year at the opportunity to rest his weary bones. He wanted to stretch out, to prop his legs up, but he was afraid that his feet might be seen if he rested them on the balcony railing. He must remember to have Madame Giry bring him a footstool…

…..

He woke to the abominable sounds of a violin screeching in the hands of a painfully inept player. He sat bolt upright, head throbbing with anger and the sudden movement. How dare someone make such horrible noises under the roof of his hose of music?

He was about to ask that question aloud in his most menacing "Phantom" voice, when a man's tenor voice pleaded exasperatedly, "Please, Mademoiselle Courant, give me back my violin!"

A woman's tinkling laugh floated up through Box Five's curtains as Erik stood and smoothed out his still-slightly-damp evening suit. The screeching continued.

"Please, Mlle Courant!"

The laughter came again, teasing.

"Laura!"

"Oh, alright, Lars," said the woman's voice, still laughing. The noise stopped, and Erik sighed in relief. Violins were not meant to be abused in that manner!

He settled back in his armchair and listened as a violin and a flute began warming up on assorted selections from the new opera – what Erik assumed were options for the chorus girls' auditions. When he had retrieved her materials for their rehearsals, he had not allowed Christine to waste her time singing those songs which were clearly so far below her level of talent. True, none of the selections were exactly awe-inspiring, but he would not let his Prima Donna lower herself by singing chorus tunes. She would be his leading lady, and he accepted no less of a performance from her.

In less than half an hour, the chorus men filed in, quickly followed by the chorus girls led by Meg Giry. Erik laughed to himself as he wondered what the poor child had made of finding herself comfortably in her own bed that morning. She did look slightly green…

After the women had taken their seats a few rows in front of the men, the panel of judges filed into the front row. The all looked slightly uneasy for adults who had conducted countless auditions in their long careers. Erik could not help but to take credit for their discomfort – recent events and his own casting suggestions would have them careful to pick only the best performers.

His prideful thoughts were rudely interrupted by the arrival of one who did not qualify as one of "the best performers" on his list. Carlotta Guidichelli, returning soprano _toad_, and that rotund lover of hers Ubaldo Piangi were followed up the aisles by nearly twenty personal staff or lackeys. Erik fought to quell the growl building deep in his throat. Did that miserable crow of a woman think to intimidate his Angel? A rage crept over him, and he gripped the sides of his armchair to calm himself.

M DuGaulle leapt excitedly to his feet, welcoming the auditioners in a high, bouncy voice. Really, the man was quite insufferable. Pompous and shallow, he was tolerated only for his severely limited artistic vision. He was of no real use, in Erik's opinion. M Reyer and Mme Giry were all too often left covering up for his many absences with their own direction. Perhaps once the new managers were convinced of his complete control over his opera house, he would begin a search for a decent director.

There was a deafening silence when DuGaulle called for volunteers. From the height of Box Five, Erik could see heads turning as girls silently urged on their companions, trying to bully them into auditioning first. He laughed to himself as his petite angel leapt up with a yelp, clearly having just been pinched quite hard by little Meg Giry. Ah the lives of the young…but now was the time of their test.

Christine ascended the stage, her trembling visible even from Erik's distance. _Courage, my love_, he whispered, willing his words to reach the young woman as any young lover might do. He found his breath and heart quickening in anticipation of her sing as she answered the director's tiresome inquiries. No matter how many times he heard those angelic strains, no matter how harsh he seemed as he instructed her, her voice never ceased to enchant him.

She began her song, and he listened critically – ever the tutor. But however critically he listened, he could find little fault with the piece. Her voice soared gracefully in the main soprano solo of the opera – something he was sure that cawing crow Carlotta would never be able to match, the sweetness, the purity. They had spent countless hours over the last two weeks perfecting that piece, and it seemed their combined efforts had paid off magnificently. She was perfect.

The song ended and Erik reclined in his chair to thunderous applause. They were clapping for him as much as for her, whether they knew it or not. Christine was his window to greatness, the world's porthole to a shadow of his genius.

Next was Christine's dance audition, with which he had only been able to inadequately advise her at best. It had been awkward to watch her dance when they were alone in his home – after she had so willingly accepted his marred body, he felt unworthy of admiring hers and had allowed her to practice alone for several hours a day.

It had certainly paid off, Erik thought as he permitted himself to regard Christine's dancing form on the stage below. She was so beautiful, with her slim body and graceful movements. Again, he wondered if it were wrong to feel so about his young pupil, but his body won over his mind and he watched her hungrily.

All too soon, the audition was over, and his angel stepped weakly from the stage to the applause of her friends. His eyes followed her approvingly as she wearily approached Meg Giry and embraced her. He barely restrained himself from laughing aloud as his clever girl spun her friend around and thrust her roughly towards the stage and into the spotlight. Even his little songbird had a taste for revenge at times!

Erik had planned to stay only until Christine's auditions were finished, but he saw that his pupil intended to stay, and so he settled back into his cushioned chair with the creak of weary bones. Now he would see if the Giry girl had the guts to give the same performance in public that he had witnessed several weeks back. As he watched her nervously mount the stage and give her information, looking as though she were about to be violently ill, he wondered if the timid creature would have the nerve to put herself out on the stage like that. Somehow, he doubted it. There had been a fear and hesitation in her manner before that marked her as too afraid to ever truly perform in public. He had wondered why she seemed so reserved, but he could tell that like himself, she was quite content – or resigned, perhaps – to dwell in the shadows of life.

It was with a great shock that these conceptions were shattered, as in the next instant Meg Giry had launched buoyantly into the most upbeat song Erik had heard in months. He straightened in his chair as though stung as the clear, bright tone, perfectly fitting the impudent tone of the song and so very unlike the terrified whisper she had used in his presence or any of the speaking tones she used around her friends, filled the auditorium with shocking resonance. As she sang, it was easy for Erik to see her in the role of the lady's maid, a versatile, fun part he hadn't thought before would suit her. But he nearly found himself smiling, entranced, as Meg told of poorly concealed secrets, of work, of the versatile life of servants. He hadn't realized he was such an adaptable girl.

There was a stunned silence as Meg ended the song with a graceful fall and a brilliant smile. Apparently, the audience had been no more aware of the Giry girl's gifts than he had, Erik thought. Even Meg herself seemed stunned by what she had done. Behind her actress's smile, shock, embarrassment, and even fear flitted across her blue eyes as applause broke out over the auditorium.

Antoinette too seemed disturbed, and she was very quick to hurry her daughter along to the next step of her audition, though she ought to have been pleased. She rose and shushed the approving crowd and rushed Meg onto the dance audition.

Here was one area in which Erik admitted a possibility of the skinny Giry girl equaling his beloved Christine. Christine's slim, petite body and delicate movements were undoubtedly alluring, but there was an intensity to Meg's gentle steps as they combined perfectly with the music that captivated the watcher, that transported him into the world of the story with the same consuming _believability_ with which her voice pulled at her listeners. True, she had nothing of the purity of Christine's tone, or the magic of his own vocal chords, but there was no denying she was good. He would at least give her that.

He was so entranced in her dance that its abrupt end came as a nearly physical blow. The girl had stepped out of a simple spin and turned her ankle, falling heavily to the floor. He watched impassively as she flushed and clambered back on her feet. As she quickly finished the ballet, the magic shattered, Erik peered intently at her face. There was something odd about her that nothing to do with the stress or effort of performing. He wondered briefly if she had caught cold from her sleep in the snow the night before.

Yes, there was definitely something wrong with her, Erik decided as Meg ended the dance rather untidily and strode quickly offstage. She walked with the odd, quick steps he had seen a blind gipsy woman use when he was a captive in their camp, and he suspected that she was not simply preoccupied – something was wrong with her vision.

Thus prepared, Erik was one of the very few who did not leap up with a shout as the blonde's knees buckled, he foot slipped off the carpeted stair, and she tumbled down the short staircase. As her head cracked against the stairs and Antoinette and Christine rushed to her side to the screams of frightened chorus girls, Erik rose and quietly slipped out of the curtained Box doorway. Silently, he opined a concealed panel and made the dark descent to the fallen dancer's mirror passage. After all, events like this concerned him simply because this was his Opera House, but he should also be there for his Angel when they brought her friend in. He smiled behind his mask as he turned a corner in the darkness. And he wouldn't miss the ensuing drama for the world.


	27. Memories and Misgivings

**Hello again. As you can see, I changed the name of the story, to something I think fits a bit better. "Hidden Desires" made it sound like a bad romance. "Unsung" gives it more the feel I wanted. As in Vanessa Carlton's song. **

**Anyway, here you are. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 22**

**Memories and Misgivings **

"Meg? Oh, God, Meg, wake up! Say something!"

"Meg? Hey, are you okay?"

"Meg! Meg, darling, wake up, child! Please, don't do this to me!"

"Oh God! Meg! Is she alright?"

Chaos broke out over the auditorium as the judges and chorus girls, even a few of the chorus men, clustered around the blonde girl's fallen form. At the center of the crowd crouched Madame Giry and Christine Daae, who were quickly joined by Monsieur Reyer. The three all checked Meg's pulse and breathing, attempting to reassure themselves of her questionable health. Her pulse was quick and fluttering and her breathing was slow and shallow, but at least she still had both.

"Excuse me, pardon me, let me through, please," the deep voice of Monsieur Richard Firmin, muffled by the press of women's bodies through which he was wading, filtered through to the concerned onlookers at the center of the crowd. He emerged with some difficulty, boxy hairdo slightly mussed by passing through the thick crowd. He was closely followed by the shorter M Andre – though his countenance was normally so wild that there was no noticeable change in his erratic gray hair or flushed face.

M Firmin knelt beside Christine to peer at Meg's slightly twisted form. He put a hand at her throat –

_She was six years old, though she looked and acted older. She was dusting in the lounge – Mama insisted that she learn to clean despite what Father sometimes did when he found out. She had heard him from her room when he shouted at Mama – he thought she was trying to say their servants weren't good enough for her. At other times, though, he had called Meg in to clean up after him, usually watching and criticizing her skills, telling her she'd never amount to anything in her life. Her large blue eyes swam with tears as she recalled his last hurtful barrage of insults. Soon she was sniffling, cleaning the room by memory rather than sight, as her eyes were too full of tears to see properly. _

"_What, crying again?" came a slurred voice behind her. "How weak." _

_She gave an enormous sniff and spun, wiping her eyes furiously. It was best to be presentable when around her father – Mama said "presentable" was calm and quiet, with smooth hair and clean hands and face. Especially when he slurred like that – it meant he'd been drinking badly already. Even at six years of age Meg knew what effects alcohol had on her father, and her family._

_Rudolph Giry advanced on his daughter, eyes bloodshot with drink. The brat was simply staring at him, her mother's eyes emotionless and cool in an impassive, tearstained face. Some part of his heart went out to the too-skinny child, standing so stoically with a black feather duster clutched in both hands, but his recent intake of brandy drowned his compassion and filled him instead with a fiery, inexplicable rage. Did his fool wife seek to embarrass him again, think that he couldn't provide adequate servants in his own house? What if he had had friends over, and they saw his own daughter working like a commoner in his own home? The shame would be outrageous, and he towered over the frail child like a vengeful ogre. _

"_Who asked you to clean in here?" he demanded, his mouth refusing to form the words quite right. _

_Meg knew what trouble her mother would get into if she blamed her, and she was already destined for trouble, so she decided to lie. _

"_Noone. I wanted to help," she said in her high child's voice, unnaturally calm for her age, barely refraining from saying a servant's name in case Father went after the staff next. _

_Meg fell to the ground in a pile of frocks as her father's large hand, larger than her entire head, reached down and slapped her smartly across the face. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out, knowing that if Mama heard she would come running and only get herself hurt too. She sniffed again as the tears welled up once more. _

"_Stop that goddamn sniffling," he slurred, reaching down and wrenching the feather duster from the clutch of her tiny, pale hands. Those enormous blue orbs seemed almost to glow as she gazed up at him fearfully, backing away on all fours to the nearest shelter of a decanter stand. He gave a roar and strode after her, kicking out at her with one large, shiny-booted foot. She cowered behind one of the stand's tripod legs and his foot collided heavily with the thin varnished cherry, cracking the wood and rocking the stand. Meg gave a squeak like a frightened mouse, trying not to scream in fright as a full bottle of brandy toppled off of the stand and smashed on the carpet between her and her assailant. _

_Rudolph Giry stared at the amber liquid soaking slowly into the carpet and felt the unnatural rage boiling through his veins. A red curtain closed over his eyes, and he growled as he stepped forward, glass crunching underfoot. His daughter was only a mop of blonde curls over a tiny, cowering ball of pale frocks, not his own blood. He reached down and seized her without a drop of compassion left in his heart. His thick fingers closed around her throat…_

– to check her pulse, and shook his head as he felt the quick fluttering under his fingers.

"She needs a doctor," he said briskly, now lifting her head to feel for any premature swelling. A hard knot was already forming, but it definitely wasn't the reason she was still unconscious. He looked sharply at M Reyer, Mme Giry, and Mlle Daae. "Has she been ill recently?" This sort of thing was not supposed to happen in his opera house, especially not when the child had just shown a startling sort of potential!

The two judges shook their heads worriedly, but Mlle Daae looked down at her unconscious friend with tears welling in her dark eyes. They all looked at her questioningly.

"She did say she felt ill this morning," she said, so softly that it was barely audible over the distressed murmur of the surrounding crowd. "She was dizzy and sick, and kept coughing." She shrugged. "We all thought she was nervous, but I guess we should have known better. She never gets nervous."

Mme Giry glared at Christine and M Firmin in turn, as though it was entirely their fault her baby was injured. She scooted over and cradled her daughter's head in her lap, Meg's bloodless face and the blonde locks spilling over her mother's thick black skirts making a sharp contrast. She brushed the hair away from Meg's pale face tenderly, just as she used to….

"_Shh, baby, it's okay," she whispered, holding the blonde five-year-old tightly to her chest and rocking her gently back and forth. The thirty-year-old woman's once lovely face was already deeply lined, and at that moment bore a stark red handprint from the slap she had received as she carried her daughter away from the aftermath of her husband's drunken rage. _

"_I didn't mean it, Mama," Megara sobbed into her mother's chest, her voice muffled. _

"_Shh, je sais, cherie," Antoinette whispered soothingly, smoothing her daughter's curls gently. "Papa's not feeling well right now, so we must be very quiet, dearest." The two women were in Meg's nursery, trying very hard not to disturb the hung-over man down the hall with their crying._

"_I'm sorry," Meg muttered into her mother's chest, sad and angry at herself for causing more problems, for making Papa angry, for making Mama hurt. _

"_Shh…it wasn't our fault, dear," Antoinette muttered, kissing the top of her daughter's blonde head. The two women clutched at each other in desperation, both silently swearing that they would never let the other go…_

and looked up pleadingly into M Reyer's old, tired eyes.

"We've got to get her to bed," Antoinette whispered tiredly. Charles Reyer nodded, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder as he looked up, startled by the crowd of stagehands that had gathered at the top of the stairs. He did not need Antoinette's warning hiss to know to look past a leering Joseph Buquet at the fore of the group. He motioned to a handsome young man who often helped to arrange the orchestra set, and the boy smartly pushed his way through the crowd and steeped quickly down the stairs, eager to help.

Christine and Madame Giry helped in what little ways they could as the young man gathered Meg's thin frame into his strong arms, resettling her head or sticklike limbs. Antoinette pressed her lips into the thinnest of lines and clutched at little Christine nervously. When had her daughter gained that frighteningly emaciated look? She knew she had been practicing a lot lately, and the girl had never been one to eat much, but now she looked positively starved. There was more than exercise at work here – perhaps their recent stress with Christine over the past production? Madame Giry racked her brain as she followed the young stagehand across the stage, feverishly seeking a cause for her beloved daughter's illness.

A small procession followed the stageman through the winding backstage corridors. Antoinette supported herself on Christine's slim arm, looking anywhere but at the dark green vest of the man in front of her. She looked up at the bare wood scaffolding of the Populaire's first five stories, able to see halfway up the building in the main backstage corridor. She thought that she could see dust and slipper chalk swirling down through the flickering gas lamps that lined the wooden support beams, and wondered distractedly if someone had unsettled the tiny motes or if it was always this dusty. This place really was impossible to keep clean, she thought with a sigh, but she reminded herself that that was not her job. Working where she was not wanted had led to problems in the past, and it was unlikely to be appreciated or logical now. Still, she allowed her mind to distract itself with its rambling thought – she felt unable to focus on the situation at hand at present.

Christine Daae found another focus for her distraught mind as she supported her ballet mistress. The slim brunette also raised her eyes to the pale swirls of dust and chalk, but she was not really seeing them.

_Oh, Angel, _she thought sadly, _Was it too great a gift? I know Meg has always wanted to show that greatness she just gifted us with, and thank you for giving it to her! …But…I think it was at too great a cost. Why did you take so much out of her? Is that the price of greatness, Angel? Poor Meg…surely it didn't take so much…_

Her words died inside her head as the procession reached Meg's dressing room and Mme Giry snapped out of her reverie long enough to unlock the door. Christine scurried past the stagehand and into the dark room, grabbing a match from the open box on Meg's nightstand, striking it on the long strip of sandpaper pasted to her headboard, and lighting a small pale candle beside the small bed. She stepped back and let the handsome young man deposit Meg gently on top of the cot.

Madame Giry immediately rushed to the bedside, tucking her daughter tightly in under her new blankets and obviously intending to make herself comfortable. The managers exchanged unreadable glances, and M Reyer quietly approached the kneeling ballet mistress.

"Antoinette," he said gently, placing his withered old hands on the concerned mother's shoulders. "Nous devons nous retourner aux auditions," he reminded her softly, looking away when her pained eyes met his. The poor woman had been so worried over the last two weeks, obsessing herself over the performances to keep from thinking about the disappearance of a young woman she loved so well, and now to see her daughter so suddenly and severely ill… M Reyer extended a hand and drew the ballet instructor to her feet, suddenly noticing how very old the dear woman seemed.

Mme Giry appeared to pull herself together with some difficulty as she recalled the task set to her that morning.

"Yes, yes." She said, smoothing her dress and patting her hair into its severe bun as though only just realizing her surroundings. "Yes, well, we mustn't keep them waiting."

"It's okay," Christine said gently, kneeling down beside Meg's bed in Mme Giry's place. "I'll stay with her." Her gentle voice seemed to sooth the elder woman's frayed nerves a bit.

"Thank you, child," Antoinette said with a weary smile, and M Reyer mirrored the appreciative gesture. Messrs Richard and Firmin were kind enough not to input their comments.

And with that, the judges quitted the small dark room, leaving an unconscious Meg, and unsettled Christine, and an unseen Erik alone in the room.

Christine felt a strong sense of irony as she turned away from the closing, lit doorway and the room was momentarily plunged into darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she looked back upon her sleeping friend with a small smile.

"Well, Meg," she said softly, not knowing how the unseen figure behind the mirror sighed at hearing her voice. "Let's get you settled."

As Christine changed Meg out of her leotard, skirt, and slippers and into her worn black nightshift in an effort to make her more comfortable, she allowed herself a faint smile. She recalled when she had first come to the Opera House and Meg had immediately taken her under her wing. Meg had always been the one who looked out for the poor, sad, frightened girl that was Christine before the Angel of Music began to teach her. It was Meg who had taught her her dance steps, how to find her way around the Opera House, which of the girls was friendly and who was mean. It was Meg who was still her practical voice of reason, who had filled her head with ancient stories, brought the operas to life with her passionate tellings, and saved her skin more than once by quick thinking or taking the blame herself whenever the plans of youth ran afoul. Meg was as dear as any sister to her, and Christine was glad of the chance to repay her friend for all of her kindness.

Once Christine had redressed her friend, she carefully arranged the heavy bedclothes over the girl's thin frame and tucked her in tightly. As an afterthought, she undid the long black ribbon that bound back the top half of Meg's long blonde hair and ran her fingers through it to brush out the tangles. Her hand brushed against Meg's face and she realized that she was still unnaturally cold. She felt her neck, and Meg's pulse was slow and weak. Christine's face was sad as she pulled the blankets up higher, tucking them right under Meg's chin. With a sigh, the petite brunette pulled Meg's small makeup chair over by the nightstand and settled herself into it. She picked up the first book she saw – Meg's collection of mythology that still lay beside her bed. She thumbed through the pages disinterestedly, not focusing on anything. So, with an empty mind and an empty heart, she began her long vigil.

_It was her earliest memory. And, though she never realized it, it was why she could never truly bring herself to hate him. _

_She was three years old, and she and her father were horseback riding through the countryside. The day had started bright and sunny, but now the wind had picked up and dark clouds were steadily rolling across the sky. They exited a grove of trees and stopped in the center of a field of wildflowers swaying violently in the newborn breeze. _

_Poseidon, her father's bay stallion named for the creator of horses of Greek legend, cantered gently to a halt as her father reined him in. Meg laughed as the horse's hooves churned up flower heads, sending dark petals spiraling through the breeze. One caught in her unbound, fair hair, and her father smiled and gently tucked the loose blonde strands behind her ear. _

_He lifted her small body off the horse and lowered her to the ground, her small slippered feet scrabbling for purchase on Poseidon's flanks. The stallion skittered sideways, jittery with the rising wind, and her father laughed. Meg's feet touched the ground and she frolicked away, spinning with her arms spread wide. In his sober moments, that was how he liked to remember his daughter – not cowering, not glaring, not crying, but free and innocent, laughing at the sky. _

_She stopped twirling and laughed as her frock still swirled around her. "Come on, Papa," she laughed, and he laughed too. That was how she always remembered him in her dreams or thoughts – sitting on his huge stallion, his blond hair tousled by the rising wind, his head thrown back, smiling loving at her, against a backdrop of dark flowers tossed about by the wind. He climbed down from his horse and she ran to him. He caught her under her arms and lifted her high, spinning her so that the world was just a blur, and he was her only anchor. _

_They ran through the field together, father and daughter, until the wind brought a heavy rain. The pair then leapt back atop Poseidon and galloped all the way back to their estate. Much to her mother's dismay, they traipsed all the way to the sitting room fireplace in their wet things, dripping all over the expensive _

_Maybe that was why she loved the rain. _


	28. Dreams and Descent

**Chapter 23**

**Dreams and Descent**

Meanwhile, Erik remained ever present in his own watchful vigil. He leaned casually against the far wall of his hidden hallway, growing rather bored as he watched the room beyond the mirror. As much as he loved to gaze upon his beautiful beloved, he soon became tired of watching the silent pair in the dressing room. He allowed his mind to divide itself, concentrating on everything and nothing at once. His eyes feasted on the slim young girl in the room beyond, her back bent over a book and her chocolate curls spilling over her pale shoulders, his ears easily picked up the music of the audition halfway across the Opera, and his thoughts rambled aimlessly through snow-covered rooftops and half-imagined dismal futures.

Would Christine kneel at his bedside, he wondered, when he lay old and dying? When, as could not be far away, his ancient heart finally succumbed to the tortures he had put it through, would his Angel watch over his failing body? Would she weep for him, a desolate young widow, or would she rejoice inside at the chance to pursue a proper husband, still a young bride? Or would she already have passed on, refusing to be his living bride and taking her life at the start of their union?

He shook himself mentally, absently stroking the hard porcelain of his mask with one gloved hand. Odd that the mysterious illness – not so mysterious to him – of the Giry girl should prompt such morbid thoughts. True, they were ordinary for someone of his macabre temperament and appearance, but he found himself vaguely wondering about the fate of the wasting child beside his dear Angel.

He would wait, he decided, until this enigmatic little drama played out. To amuse himself and sooth his worried Angel, he hummed along with the barely distinguishable haunting melody from the violin playing down the long hall. The beautiful, eerie notes drifted through the hollow bricks of the dressing room's wall, soothing the anxious watcher and granting pleasant dreams to the sleeper beyond.

Meg had not memories to match the peace and beauty of the song – at least, none that she could remember.

So instead she dreamed.

_The sun shone softly on the grassy yard, sparkling off of the blonde hair of the small girl chasing butterflies on the open lawn. Meg watched her from under the shade of a large oak tree, a thin volume of poetry in her lap, a motherly smile tilting her red lips. _

_Motherhood suited Megara Giry. Her full skirts, tapered waist, and low neckline accented her figure, filled out womanly but still beautifully slim. Her long legs were crossed under the skirts, graceful but comfortable. The faintest traces of makeup highlighted her sweet face, its childhood imperfections only serving to make her more beautiful and glowing as a woman. _

_A faint breeze stirred her curled long hair from where it lay against her bare shoulders and chest. The dark green leaves of the oak tree rustled softly, nearly masking the silent catlike steps approaching on the soft grass. _

_Meg leaned her head back against the smooth bark of the tree, letting the cool south France breeze kiss her skin. Faint smells, of that night's dinner cooking back in the house, of flowers and cut grass, reached her nose as she breathed deeply. Another smell reached her, deeply dear and well known to her. It was the smell of varnish and old books, a spicy scent of a man's body and something old, of starched cotton and beeswax and roses. _

_Her husband._

_He stood silently beside her, watching their carefree little daughter. Meg leaned against his long leg, already clad in black evening suit trousers, and buried her face in his thigh. He reached down and stroked her hair with his long fingers, incredibly gentle. Meg twined her arms around his leg, the purest sense of safety and happiness and comfort washing over her, making her feel warm despite the breeze. _

_She looked up at her husband, hoping to exchange a glance with him, her eyes full of love…_

_And everything went dark. _

Erik abruptly stopped his humming as the dressing room door burst open and Mme Giry rushed in, closely followed by Monsieur Francois Liber, the Populaire's hired doctor. Christine leapt to her feet, startled, as the nondescript, smartly clad man immediately set his briefcase down on Meg's nightstand and withdrew a cold stethoscope. He stuck the ends of the device in his rather large ears and placed the icy metal pad against Meg's unbound chest.

The doctor was silent for several seconds, listening intently to the unconscious girl's shallow breathing. He frowned and turned his face away from the silent, anxious women clutching each other behind him. Behind the mirror, even Erik levered himself off the wall, anxiously hovering in front of his mirror window.

M Liber slowly pulled the ends of the stethoscope out of his ears and hung the instrument around his neck. He did not look behind him as he spoke, diligently checking Meg's pulse.

"There is quite a lot of fluid in her lungs."

Christine Daae felt as though the ground had suddenly tilted underneath her. She felt Madame Giry weakly clutch at her arm, and barely kept from falling to the floor. She heard in her mind, as though it were yesterday, the booming voice of the doctor that had looked at her father. First it had merely been fluid in his lungs. But as the coughing grew worse, the doctors finally gave the sickness a name – consumption.

M Liber gave another frown at the weak fluttering of the girl's pulse. He pressed his fingers firmly into her wrist, trying to feel for a steady undercurrent flowing through those blue veins.

Suddenly, the unconscious child gave a great wrench to her arm, and he latched firmly onto her wrist in reflex. The two women behind him gave cries of alarm and rushed forward as Meg thrashed, trapped in the darkness of her own mind. Christine threw herself onto the bed and pressed her palms down hard on Meg's twisting shoulders. Meg's face was twisted in sorrow or pain, and Christine had to bite her lower lip to refrain from crying out in sympathy. Madame Giry held her daughter's bare feet down under their blankets so that her movement was restricted. Doctor Liber held her wrists down, surprised at the considerable strength in those thrashing, sticklike arms.

"Please, Meg," Christine said thickly through a sorrow constricted throat. "Please, mon amie, be calm. That mind of yours is far too great to be destroyed by itself – its own demons. Please, Meg, be still." There was a deep, hypnotic overlay to her voice that seemed to calm the distraught dreamer.

Slowly, Meg calmed, the distressed, frantic sounds issuing from deep in her throat quieting to a few faint whimpers, and then to silence. Anxiously, her three suppressers reluctantly loosed her holds in her now-still limbs, hardly daring to breathe sighs of relief.

Madame Giry broke the long silence with a quavery-voiced question.

"How bad is it?"

M Liber shook his head, packing up his stethoscope slowly and silently. "It's difficult to tell at this point. I think," he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly as he mopped his face with a pale handkerchief, "that she will not wake soon. Normally, I would have someone with her, to help her when she wakes or to protect her…. but I think it will be safe for you both to attend the audition, my ladies." He paused and added reluctantly, "I hear fluid in her lungs, and I can't quite explain the prolonged unconsciousness without a more serious prognosis. But she's still very cold – be sure to keep her warm, and watch for a sudden fever. If this continues, the fluid may become infected, and I feel I do not need to tell you how dangerous untreated pneumonia may become."

Christine experienced a very odd felling that was a perfect mixture of relief and worry. It was not consumption – a blessing to be sure – but it could soon progress to a severe pneumonia, which could become nearly as dangerous. She put an arm around Mme Giry's shoulders for comfort.

M Liber showed himself to the door, businesslike to a fault. "I do think that someone should check on her often. Je vais retourne ce soir. Au revoir, Madame, Mademoiselle."

The two women were silent for several moments. Finally, Madame Giry spoke again.

"Well, I should be getting back," she said awkwardly. "Principal auditions will start soon… I believe you were wanting to attend?"

Christine nodded. "I'll be along in a minute," she said softly, standing immobile in the center of the room, looking like someone's lost little porcelain doll.

Mme Giry nodded understandingly and quitted the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Christine remained in the middle of the room, standing perfectly still and raising her eyes to the ceiling. She began to pray.

"Oh, God…Oh, Angel. Please watch over her. Please cure her, and bring her back to us safely. She has such a future… I'd hate for her to miss it. She wouldn't want to miss out on life. Please help her."

And with that last, softly spoken plea, Christine followed the ballet mistress out of the door and down the winding hall, out into the auditorium and the gambit of principal auditions.

_It was audition day again. She seemed to ascend the steps up to the stage in slow motion, the dark shapes of four giant judges looming menacingly over her. She felt them glaring, waiting for her to fail, and she tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry. _

"_Well, get on with it," boomed a black voice as she reached center stage. No music started, but she obediently opened her mouth to begin. _

_Nothing came out but a dry rasp, a mere squeak of a sound. She flushed, her throat too dry, her face too hot. _

"_Sing!" The dark voice commanded again. _

_She tried again but again could only rasp. _

"_I can't…" she said apologetically, feeling her mother's disappointed gaze up on her. _

"_Monsieur Buquet," the voice boomed disgustedly, "remove this disgrace from our stage at once." _

_Joseph Buquet appeared at her side and seized her wrist, pulling her roughly to his side with a hard arm around her waist. She tried to push him away, but there was no strength in her arm. She lashed out with one hand, attempting to claw at his face, but her nails barely scraped against his flabby, ruddy cheeks, scrabbling uselessly. He laughed and pulled her body tight against his, the hand at her waist sliding down to grasp her bottom. She thrashed against him, and suddenly she felt a new pair of hands seize her shoulders. Their grip was iron but not rough – merely forceful. Buquet looked surprised, his face purpling in anger as Meg's wrist and hand slipped from his grip as though oiled. That iron grip pulled her back, down and down into shadows and blacker night, but she was not afraid. Her rescuer gave no sign of his identity other than the strange comfort of his firm yet gentle grip and the safety of shadows, but she knew him still. _

_It was the Phantom…_

Erik was extremely annoyed. The girl hand just asked her Angel to watch over and cure Meg, never considering what he wanted to do. Perhaps he wanted to be there to watch over her auditions! Wasn't this what they had trained for, worked for together for so long? True, a part of his heart watned to melt at the thought of her noble sacrifice, of asking her Guardian to watch over her unconscious friend rather than her own endeavors. But what about what _he_ wanted? He watned to watch her triumph over that impertinent toad Carlotta, awe the judges with the fruits of _their_ labors!

But perhaps…

An idea occurred to him – not a compensation for missing the audition, but an appreciative gesture all the same that would give his Angel a beautiful surprise. But he would have to hurry…


	29. Care and Cure

**Eh, I'm a dork and I forgot to stick the last part of the last chapter at the end of the last post, so you get that and a whole new chapter. **

**So, review now, huh? I'm sorry it took so long. **

Erik entered the room quickly, passing though the mirror passage before it had fully opened and swooping down upon the unconscious girl like a vampire, his dark cloak billowing around the both of them. He scooped Meg's body smoothly up into his arms, tucking her blankets tightly around her barely clad form. He didn't mind the extra weight of a quilt if it meant he didn't have to carry a woman dressed only in the thinnest black shift. As it was, he had to turn his head from the sight of her pale, bare shoulder, exposed as her sleeve slipped down her arm and her head lolled weakly. She may be his tool at the moment, but he did not believe she was his to gaze upon so freely in her current state. He laughed as he recalled that meddling Persian's last words to him – "And whatever else you've been, Erik – you've always been a gentleman, haven't you?" Erik chuckled to himself. He supposed he did try…

With the alacrity of years of practice and an intimate knowledge, Erik quitted the dressing room and strode quickly through his hidden passages. Down countless winding identical corridors, trapdoors behind trapdoors, and spiraling staircases, down to an enormous underground cavern, where a chiseled shore of bedrock and gravel ended abruptly at a deathly still black lake. A midnight black gondola, gilded with gold paint in designs of swirls and stars, was moored on the rocky shore. Carefully, Erik laid his bundle of girl down in the prow of the gondola and launched the small boat, stepping into the bow gracefully in the last instant before he would have gotten his shining dress shoes wet. He hoped the girl would not choose this inopportune moment to wake, or drown herself in another nightmare.

The momentum of his push brought Erik level with an upright ferry pole planted firmly in the lake's murky bottom. He seized the long, thin rod and leaned his weight against it, propelling his small boat forward and freeing the pole simultaneously. He began to steadily pole them across the lake, towards the _dining room on the lake_ veiled in the darkness before them – his true home, his sanctuary.

He had barely allowed himself a quiet sigh before his breath was suddenly jarred out of him in surprise. The gondola gave a mighty lurch. Meg had stirred in her sleep, her face screwed up and brow furrowed as she threw her hands up over her face. Erik grimaced behind his mask as he planted his pole in the lake sediment and leaned into it, bracing the gondola with legs spread wide. Eventually the girl lay still again, and Erik was able to ferry them safely to the far shore without further incident.

As soon as he heard the scrape of the gondola's hull against the gravel of the shore, Erik planted the pole in the lake bottom and half-vaulted himself out of the boat and onto the shore, landing just beyond the edge of the water. He pulled the gondola higher up on the shore and scooped Meg up into his arms, blankets and all.

With a faint twinge of reluctance, he carried the motionless girl to the Louis-Philippe room. This was his Angel's room, not this infuriating child's! But he didn't have a lot of choice – he would rather put her on Christine's swan bed than in his own coffin. In the event that she _did_ wake, finding herself in a coffin would probably send the chit to an early grave, and hysterics at the very least.

He lay Meg on the velvet-covered bed and swiftly bundled her in the thick blankets. Then he left the room, locking the door firmly behind him. If she were to wake, he could not have her wandering around his home.

_That's not helping her_, his conscience hissed in his ear as he crossed the living room and the kitchen. _Christine didn't mean for you to simply move her to a colder, darker setting!_ it hissed.

_I'll only be a moment_, Erik told himself firmly, sternly suppressing that strange pang of conscience. He trailed his gloved fingers delicately across an apparently bare stretch of hallway wall, caressing the hidden switch that opened the concealed doorway into his own lightless room. His sunken, catlike eyes glowed red in the darkness as he skirted the velvet-draped coffin of black mahogany in the center of the room. On the far wall stood a small personal bookcase, stuffed to overflowing withhold sketchbooks and books of a more… intimate nature, those he did not think it suitable for his Angel to discover in his library. Atop the bookcase stood a painted porcelain vase full of blood-red roses in full bloom, de-thorned long enough ago that the stems were completely smooth. He selected a brilliant flower at the peak of its bloom and just as quickly exited the room.

From a drawer in his thick oak writing desk in the corner of the living room he retrieved a short length of black silk ribbon, which he tied deftly in a bow around the stem of the red rose. And without pausing, he headed back to the gondola in a billow of black cloak. He tugged his fedora down low against the wind of his passing, settling it snug against the top rim of his mask.

He quickly ferried himself back across the lake. He made quite a dashing picture in his swirling dark cloak and pale mask, glinting with reflected candlelight from the rippling lake, standing stably astride the gondola, his eyes glinting the same deep scarlet as the rose he clutched in one gloved hand. With the boat grounded and moored, he hurried up the five cellar levels, his pace quicker and stride longer as the faint sounds of singing met his sensitive ears. His breathing slowed – those angelic sounds could only belong to his beloved. He was not too late.

He reached the mirror-door into Meg's dressing room and paused, swiftly re-checking the bow of black silk on the rose's stem. He then entered the dim room, pausing momentarily to breathe in the sweet, soft scent of his love that still lingered in her friend's room. He sighed, temporarily frozen, a strange warm feeling of happiness settling in his bones at being able to make his love happy. She would surely be pleased at his surprise!

He stood lost in thought for a moment too long. Quick, nearly silent footsteps on the carpet outside warned him that his private reverie was about to be interrupted quite suddenly.

Jolted into action with a start, Erik bounded toward the bed and half tossed the rose onto the wrinkled pillow. He then spun and leapt back through the mirror, flipping the switch to close it just as the doorknob began to rattle. The mirror had barely swung shut when the door opened and Christine bustled through in a rustle of skirts. She turned from the door to the bed, her face flushed and her eyes sad, and froze. Erik inched silently closer to the two-way mirror, to better see her face.

Slowly, disbelievingly, Christine approached the small empty bed. She sank down on the cotton coversheet, one hand resting against her chest, the other stretching out to delicately lift the rose. She raised it to her face, smelled it deeply, and gently lifted the black ribbon. "Oh, Angel…"

Her curls bounced as her head swiveled quickly to face the mirror, and Erik's heart tightened to see tears of gratitude glistening in her enormous chocolate eyes. He smiled, and glowed inside as she whispered softly, raising her eyes to the ceiling,

"Thank you."

**Chapter 24**

**Care and Cure**

Over the next day, Meg's fever skyrocketed with alarming alacrity. Erik fretted constantly, unable to read or compose when faint cries and the sounds of pained thrashing emanated from the Louis-Philippe room. The child had knocked away the first concoction he had brewed to take her fever down, using his knowledge of herbs learned from an old gypsy woman. She had nearly upended his second cup all over his shirtfront as well, crying "Get away from me!" in an angry, fearful voice, her eyes still squeezed tight. He had been forced to bind her wrists together with his silk cravat and hold her head still with one hand to keep her still enough to take his potion, and then her pitiful frightened weepings of "Please, don't, please, I'm sorry, Father, please let me go," were enough to break a heart he had so recently thought not to exist. It made him feel a true monster.

It was strange, what caring for the Giry girl made him think. Mostly he thought of little Reza Khan, the poor disabled boy who had taught him about the precious fragility of innocent life, shown him the happiness of acceptance and the heart wrenching sadness of a father's loss. He found himself wishing Nadir would visit, annoying as the meddlesome Persian could be at times. Hell, he even wished his business contractor and supply associate (now that he thought of it, he didn't really know how to label the man), was scheduled for a meeting that afternoon -- or even a collection of his monthly funds! But the lair remained depressingly empty and silent. Erik dared not escape the boredom by opium, or better yet morphine -- he was supposed to care for the Giry chit, whether or not she ever made any progress.

As her fever grew worse and worse, it became clear that his medication had taken no effect. In between increasingly tortuous nightmares, her coughing grew into a deep, hollow, choking bark; her breathing slow and rattling. Meg thrashed periodically in the swan bed, throwing the covers off her sweat-slick body repeatedly, crying out in fear or pain frequently as nightmares gripped her. After endless hours with no sound but the young woman's terrified pleading or defeated sobbing, Erik found himself gnashing his teeth in anger. Not at the girl, surprisingly, but at whoever had hurt her so often that she had hours' supply of nightmares. He heard her cry out against her father at least twice an hour, and each plea nearly caused him to break whatever he happened to be attempting to distract himself with at the time. No child should be brought up to fear a parent, he thought with a low growl. Even he, hideous and hated as he was, never feared his mother. He had practically worshipped her, longed to be with her, begged for her approval, even when she gave him nothing but scorn, beatings, and a mask. Eventually, her denial had twisted his love into a hatred that had nearly driven her mad with his revenge, but never did he fear her. And he had been so sorry to find her dead all those winters ago. The memory of his cursed timing, those lost chances...

The strange silence caused Erik to lift his head from his hands and peer through the dark doorway into Meg's bedchamber. There was something...wrong about that quiet. Something not quite suppressed that spoke volumes of pain.

Slowly, Erik stood and walked into the dark room. Perhaps her fever had broken and she had awoken. Perhaps she had slipped into a sleep deeper than dreams. But he doubted it.

Sure enough, he found the young woman curled around a pillow and sobbing brokenly into it. Her blankets once again had been kicked to the rounded foot of the bed. Erik went to retrieve them, his heart nearly breaking at the sight of the poor girl. He pulled the blankets up over her body and gently smoothed them over her bare shoulders, and before he knew it, he had sunk down beside her and was stroking her hair in a sad, awkward attempt to soothe her sobs.

He could not tear his eyes from her. This annoying girl had meddled in his affairs, wandered through his passages, thought to defy his commands in _his_ house -- but he could not forget watching her grow up, seeing her be the strength that gave his Angel heart, the ease at which she had forsaken her strength to save her mother. With a pang, he realized that _he_ could be the cause of this current bout of weeping, what with all he had put her through, betraying her friend's trust and all. His eyes roved over her blanket-cocooned form, clearly in poor health aside from the fever that warmed Erik's death-cold hands even through her sweat-matted hair.

He would make her well again, he promised decidedly. He may have told himself that it was so she could be of further use to him, and certainly not that he was getting sentimental in his old age, but he _would_ repay her for causing her so much pain. Poor child... she was really quite beautiful, at times...

Under his hand, Meg's sobs quieted, and she lay quite still.

Stripped down to his shirtsleeves, Erik moved Meg, blankets and all, onto the couch in the living room. He banked up the fire in the lyre-shaped fireplace up to a hungry blaze and tucked the blankets tightly around the sleeping blonde -- a simple old remedy was better than none, and if he could sweat the fever out of her, so much the better.

Meanwhile, Erik worked steadily in the kitchen, stove blazing and beakers boiling as he rifled through his store of herbs. He was determined to create a cure for this illness -- pneumonia or whatever it had morphed into, it would not defeat him.

Ayesha, his white Siamese cat, watched him curiously from the kitchen table. She stretched and yawned invitingly each time Erik turned toward her, her diamond-studded collar glinting in the candlelight as she moved. After several minutes of his ignoring her for his strange, dried plants, she leapt down off the table and began twining herself around his dark-trousered legs, mewling softly.

"I know I can find something," Erik told the cat, turning his unmasked face down to the ghostly cat, tucking a hank of straggly white hair that fell in his face behind one ear. "My only problem is that the gypsies dealt in toxins, not cures, and it was so long ago..." He bent and scratched Ayesha delicately under the chin. "But I'll find a way around that one, won't I?"

In truth, there was another problem with his strategy. After he administered each draught to the sleeping girl, he had to wait for the effects to fade even after he deemed the concoction ineffective -- he could not risk worsening her condition with an overdose.

Two more days passed in this fashion, with Erik growing increasingly more desperate to find a cure. He flipped constantly through ancient medical journals, hoping that _something_ would bring the girl's temperature down. Christine had trusted him with her friend's health, but he feared there would be no hope for her if she stayed unconscious much longer. The unnatural fever would damage her body and mind permanently if it ran unchecked for another day or two.

At least her nightmares seemed to be under a bit more control. Erik almost even became glad of the chance to sit by her when she cried out, stroking her hair and singing softly. It was nice to approach a woman whose eyes were not brimming with hate, fear, or sadness. Even his Angel often looked so sad...

Increasingly desperate, Erik was almost driven to submit a prayer for help as midnight struck on that second night. But he forced the thought aside as soon as it surfaced – God had never helped him before, if He was even there, and he would not rely on an unseen Lord to do the job _he _had been assigned. Even though he had tried everything he could think of, he _would_ do it himself. He was determined.

And then, at nearly two in the morning, Meg's fever peaked and broke. He had to check three times before he believed his mercury thermometer, but yes – her temperature was definitely dropping! Erik breathed a sigh of relief, kneeling beside her slow-breathing form, and rested his forehead against the edge of the sofa cushion. He was exhausted. He had gone without for sleep for much longer, true, but that had been while composing, which imbued him with a heavenly energy that negated the need for sleep. This had been… so tiring…

Utterly exhausted physically and emotionally, Erik stood and stretched. Every frightfully visible bone seemed to shift and popped loudly, and he sighed. He resettled the blankets around Meg's still, sweaty body, watching as she turned onto her side and hugged the small pillow he'd lent her tightly. He allowed himself a small smile and glow of pride – for once, he'd managed to heal, to make a young woman better. He sighed again and turned to head back to his dark room and his soft, waiting coffin. He briefly considered retiring to Christine's swan bed instead, where he could sprawl out as he never could in his confining coffin. But one such as he did not deserve normal sleeping conditions, though he did not need to wake like one dead to be reminded of what he was.

He tripped the catch on his hidden doorknob and half-staggered into his black bedroom. A flash of white told him that Ayesha had given up waiting for him and now left the bedroom to eat and roam. He let her go without comment, clambering wearily into his mahogany coffin. He sighed and settled back into the velvet cushions, exhausted but satisfied. He was positive that the girl would sleep soundly for several hours. Her body was much more spent than his own. And in the blessed, peaceful quiet, Erik immediately dropped off to sleep.

Silence reigned over the dark lair, the only sounds being the ticking of the grandfather clock and the crackling of the fire. Ayesha prowled like a lost moonbeam, chasing rats and drinking the water Erik had left out for her. Eventually even the cat grew lethargic and hopped atop the curved mound of a girl on her couch before the fire, settling on the pronounced dip between her hip and waist. The clock ticked on, the only clue to the passage of time in the utter stillness.

And then Meg awoke.


	30. Awakening and Awe

This was a very easy chapter to write, surprisingly. I do like it. 

And, in case this is incorrect and has thus confused you, my Erik has golden eyes that seem to glow red in pitch darkness. I thought that was how it was in the Leroux novel, but there's been some disagreement on that subject, so I figured I'd just tell you.

**Anyway, I hope all you who aren't reviewing are enjoying this. That's what really matters, right? **

**And in case you haven't noticed, Meg is a fiercely independent person, just like her mother. She hates not being able to do things, and that's why she seems shy sometimes and refused to rest even when she was getting sick. She hates weakness more than anything else in the world and becomes furious when someone makes her feel helpless. Taking that into account, I hope you don't find this chapter too strange. **

**-Erika**

Chapter 25 Awakening and Awe 

The first thing Meg noticed was the weight on her side. She opened her eyes the smallest slit and met the amber-and-emerald stare of the most elegant cat she had ever seen. The whit Persian yawned impressively, displaying razor-sharp teeth.

Meg rolled onto her back and looked at the cat more fully.

"Hello," she said blandly, blinking at the creature on her stomach. Why on earth was there a cat sitting on her? Whose was it? And why was it in her room?

She stretched out a hand and gently stroked the top of the cat's head, stray thoughts meandering through her head as her mind slowly ground into action. Gracious, but her hand looked skeletal. She guessed she hadn't been eating enough lately. She became transfixed by the sight of the bones moving fluidly underneath the pale skin. It sure was dark though. The dying fire really didn't cast any more light than an ordinary candle…

Her mind seemed to grind to a halt, and her hand stilled upon the cat's sleek back. She didn't have a fireplace in her room. Furthermore, she was clearly lying on a thick-cushioned couch, and not her thin-mattressed twin-sized bed. Why was the air so very still, and why did it feel of water?

Very slowly and with much difficulty, Meg sat up and looked around. She gathered the white cat into her arms – her _bare_ arms! Ayesha gave a small mew of displeasure but surprisingly allowed herself to be held.

Oh, no… 

Her eyes huge in her bloodless face, Meg swung her legs out from under their blankets and set her feet upon the icy floor. It took three tries and much heaving and grunting, but eventually she managed to force her trembling legs to support her. She wavered and staggered once she stood upright, however, as a wave of green nausea spun her head and stomach. But she had to see…

Oh, God, please no… 

She prayed that she was still dreaming, that this was all a horrible nightmare created from memories of Christine's description of her prison. She _couldn't_ be down… down there…

A soft noise behind her made her spin in terror. There, standing statuesque behind her like a spectral jailer, stood an imposing figure in black. His white shirtsleeves and mask flickered demonically red in the light from the fire – he was cold, threatening, motionless, _terrifying_.

Meg drew breath to scream and choked on nothing. Her head spun and she doubled over, trying to keep her eyes on that… that _madman_ in front of her, coughing uncontrollably into one hand.

Erik took a step forward, one ungloved hand half-extended in assistance. He was reluctant to touch her with his bare skin, but he needn't have worried. Meg took a terrified step back and her knees buckled. She collapsed to the floor and the world tilted dangerously, and she clutched one hand to her stomach in an effort to stop its dry heaving. Ayesha leapt delicately to the floor as Meg crumpled and strolled calmly to where Erik now halted motionless, imperturbable as she always was. Erik ignored the cat and, almost obediently, waited for Meg's coughing and choking to subside.

"Where the _hell_ am I?" Meg demanded as soon as her breath was strong enough. "What do you want from me? What more could you _possibly_ want?" The way she drew her long, bare legs up under herself and the high, frantic manner of her demand assured Erik that she had arrived at some very disconcerting conclusions of her own.

Erik sighed sadly as he slowly bent and scooped a purring Ayesha up and cradled her against his chest. He stroked the cat silently for several moments, his throat too tight with disappointment to speak. After all, what had he expected to find when she awoke, alone in a strange place except for a mysterious manipulator who had threatened her life on more than one occasion? He just… he just wished that as her eyes found his glowing scarlet ones behind the mask, they wouldn't hold… all the terror in the world. Terror, and horror, and anger, and something indescribable buried deep beneath those passions filled those enormous blue eyes, so beautiful and expressive and heartbreaking…

Meg coughed again as he bent slowly and placed Ayesha on the ground once more. He straightened and met her eyes again, and she could have sworn there was something sad about those twin drops of blood glinting behind the mask.

"That is a poor way to thank your rescuer, Mademoiselle," he said softly, the immobile face of porcelain making even those defeated words frightening.

"What are you talking about?" Meg demanded, pulling her legs in even closer as though she could hide from the truth. A small voice in the back of her mind kept up a steady scream of panic, but it didn't seem to truly touch her.

Erik's voice was expressionless and unfathomable as he explained. "You collapsed onstage after your audition. That was three and a half days ago. Mademoiselle Daae requested that I… nurse you back to health. I have apparently managed to create a medication for whatever you caught on the roof. However, you are to rest here until I can be assured of your complete recovery. You will find everything you need to make yourself presentable down the hall." And with that chilling dismissal, Erik turned to head back down to his room.

Meg's mind reeled. Three and a half days? And he meant to hold her longer? Her mother must be going mad with worry! And surely she hadn't really been so sick as to _collapse_, and _onstage_, in front of _everyone_! Her face burned with embarrassment, but anger ruled her actions as she strode after her phantom captor and caught his wrist.

"You're not leaving until you've explained yourself, Monsieur," Meg demanded, her voice as hard as the icy glint in her eyes. "I want to know just who the hell you are, _where_ we are, and exactly what –"

Her breath was knocked out of her as she suddenly found herself pinned against the bare stone wall, Erik's icy, skeletal hand at her throat. She shoved at his chest, spluttering, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. By the time she thought to kick him, he had already pressed his body fully up against hers, preventing any such defense.

"Let me make one thing painfully clear to you, Mademoiselle Giry," he hissed, his mad eyes spitting golden fire. "This is _my_ home, and you are _my_ guest, and quite frankly you owe me your life at least twice over. While you remain here, you are not to wander about. You are to stay away from me and conduct yourself as quietly as you are able. You are _never_ to venture down my hallway and you _will not disturb my composings_."

Meg, not gasping for breath, vainly threw out a hand to strike at that terrible porcelain mask, but Erik caught her wrist in a bone-crunching grip.

"_And you shall not touch Erik's mask._"

That statement was so cold, so hard, so utterly ruthless and unfeeling, that it made Meg's heart halt mid-beat. Their two wide gazes, gold and blue, locked in a hypnotic stare for several seconds in the utter silence. Then Erik broke the moment with a violent gesture, and Meg crumpled to the floor before him, the resurgence of air in her sickened throat causing a horrible, unceasing bout of coughing. Erik stared down upon her, seething, icy anger flowing through his veins. He turned on his heel and strode deliberately away and into his library, slamming the door angrily behind him. By the time Meg was able to breathe and look about her, she was completely alone.

Meg fought to keep back tears of shame and embarrassment as she pulled herself up against the wall. Anger raged inside her now that the danger was passed, fury at Erik's actions, at her _weakness_. She slowly stumbled in the direction Erik had pointed her, silently swearing so filthily that a stagehand would have blushed. Why was she doing what he had commanded? Would she allow herself to be bullied by every man who threatened her? At this rate, any man on the street would be able to do with her as he pleased – she was so damn _weak_!

In a towering rage, Meg slammed her own door behind her, snatching the nearest thing to hand, an ornate silver-worked hairbrush, intending to hurl it across the room. But she couldn't, angry as she was, and merely threw it as hard as she could into the thick cushions of the swan bed in the center of the room. _Damn_ her conscience! She wanted to _break_ something… make anything feel this anger inside her… even herself. But she couldn't.

She completely dismissed the ornate furnishings as she stumbled around the room. After all, Christine's description had prepared her somewhat, but despite its elaborate appearance, Meg treated the room as quite ordinary. She refused to be in awe of her captor. She searched through the large armoire as though it had always been hers, selecting a dress that looked as though it might fit, in a pinch. Honestly, imagine that man caring for her in nothing but her nightshift! She seethed at the thought. How appalling!

Through a small black door decorated with stars and swirls, she found a magnificent bathchamber, small tea candles already flickering in sconces around an enormous marble bathtub. Well, _this_ threw her composure of normality. Fragrant bath oil jars of every scent imaginable lined the tub, and somehow she was unsurprised to find that the jet of water poured out already scaldingly hot. This phantom was full of surprises, but she felt too numb to register them.

Only once immersed in the hot water did Meg finally allow herself to cry. The tears made her head pound and swim, but once she began she was completely helpless to stop. What had she gotten herself into now? She was completely at the mercy of this awful madman, completely and utterly trapped. Despite Christine's tale of how gentle her "Angel of Music" had been, Meg doubted that this trait would hold for an unimportant, meddling ballet rat such as herself. Her cursed imagination presented a horrid turn of events – Erik throwing the door open, striding to the bathtub… She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the image, but the flood of imaginings continued behind the closed lids. She could not forget the feel of his body pressing hard up against hers…

After fiercely scrubbing and washing her hair, Meg toweled off and dressed in the gown she had chosen. It was a bit short for her and hung a bit loosely, but she didn't mind. Singing softly to herself to distract her mind, she danced back into the Louis-Philippe room, sweeping her skirts about her to the time of the music in her mind. She rifled through the drawers of a wide oak dresser until she found a pale blue sash, which she tied tightly about her waist to make the dress fit her. Well, it would have to do.

She vigorously buffed her hair dry, having nothing better to do. At first, she tried hanging upside down to dry the underside of her hair, but the position made her knees weak and she fell to the floor in another fit of coughing. Her anger flared again as she clutched both hands to her aching chest. It was just _weakness_! She coughed freely until the faintest thump of a footfall outside the door reached her ears between coughs. Furious that that _man_ would feel like he had to check on her, Meg snatched a pillow off the bed and buried her face in it, muffling her coughs, her entire body convulsing as she huddled on the floor against the edge of the bed. After several minutes of her suppressed coughing, growing so painful that tears welled in her eyes, the faintest rustle of cloth finally told her that Erik had ceased his cursed eavesdropping.

With one last mighty cough, Meg threw the pillow as hard as she could across the room, wishing it had thumped Erik as hard as it did the door. Curse that man for looking out for her! She could take care of herself!

Sullenly, Meg crawled weakly into the bed and pulled the velvet blankets tight around her. She'd only been awake a short while, but already she felt exhausted. Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a few minutes…

A few hours later, Erik sat in the back of his library, softly playing the violin. Though the music was faint, the sound of irony in it was evident. So, the girl refused to be helped. He chuckled softly to himself. She was her mother's daughter, at that. Antoinette Giry would never be seen to take charity from anyone, and it seemed that her child had kept that same determined sense of independence. Though, he really could not fault them…

Still, she should know when to accept help. The sound of her muffled coughs, clearly audible to his sharp ears, had pained him as much as it obviously did her. Still, the memory of a skeletal man in the courts of Persia, coughing blood after his drink was poisoned with ground glass, refusing the care of the jade-eyed _daroga_ that fought to save him rose to the top of his mind. Well, like he said… he didn't fault them for asserting their independence…

As he played on, the music slowly became gentler, more seductive. The violin seemed to have a life of its own, trying to draw anyone within hearing distance to its side.

However, when the library door opened softly and the top of a blonde head poked through, Erik thought that Meg probably had needed no encouragement to go wandering. He watched her intently, his sharp eyes invisible behind the mask. His hand guided the bow across the violin unconsciously, but the girl seemed not to be able to place the sound. Therefore, the music was simply a background, setting the mood but ignored.

She looked nice, Erik thought as she silently stepped inside and closed the library door. Her long blonde hair was slightly curled from sleep, not straight like it normally was. It looked good on her. She had also changed into one of his Angel's new dresses – despite the anger this aroused, he had to admit that the rich blue matched her enormous eyes perfectly. It hung loosely on her wasted frame, so she had belted it with a sky blue sash that drew favorable attention to her small waist. The low neck scooped to the tops of her pale breasts, and the handkerchief sleeves ruffled in the breeze of her passing, revealing bony wrists down to those long, elegant pale fingers. As he watched, she stopped quite still, swaying slightly. Her eyes were unfocused, but otherwise the evidence of the wave of dizziness was well hidden. Soon, she stepped forward again, up to the first row of books. Erik saw a hungry gleam in her eyes as she scanned the books, the way those red lips curved into the smallest smile, the tenderness in the way she lovingly caressed the spine of each book as she read its title. She walked the length of the first shelf slowly, her movements graceful and silent, occasionally removing the tome to read its summary on the inside jacket. Each step was measured and timed, suggestive of a dance to his soft music.

His song finished, Erik delicately set the violin aside. The music still seemed to linger in the air, like the remnant of perfume after a woman leaves a room. Meg seemed to have found a book she fancied, and stood before the bookcase with her head bent over the pages. Catlike, Erik crept behind her, surprised that his shadow in the flickering lamplight did not startle her. She seemed to already be in her own world. She turned slowly, a dancer's pivot on one foot, still trapped in a dance to the memory of his music… and crashed solidly into Erik's chest.

She let out a squeaking shriek and threw up her hands as though to protect herself. Erik calmly reached out and caught the book as it tumbled out of her hands, his spidery fingers clamping on the heavy volume: _Pluto's Principles: Why the Ancient Greek Teachings Apply Today_. Such a very odd girl…

Meg abruptly spun away from him, clutching her clasped hands to her chest, her shoulders hunched. Erik raised an eyebrow behind the mask. Women were certainly strange creatures.

"I… I'm sorry," Meg said. He could tell that the words were strange on her tongue, but she continued, still not looking at him. "You… you did tell me not to wander, but I… I was bored, and I heard the most beautiful music. It… "crept by me upon the waters… From there I have follow'd it, or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. This is no mortal business, nor no sound that the earth owes. I hear it now above me…"

She trailed off with a guilty glance over her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she murmured again, then spun fully in a double-take. Erik was no longer behind her! She spotted movement among the tall bookshelves and warily moved towards it, feeling the shadows embrace her. "Monsieur?"

A cold hand on her shoulder caused her to jump and spin, placing her inches away from that horrible porcelain mask. The fear that he had caused in their first meeting the night before _Hannibal_'s open flooded over her, and it was a moment before she noticed the thin volume he held open before her. When she could tear her eyes away from his startling white face, her gaze lowered to the text of the page before her. Her lips curled up in a small, all fear evaporating from her heart. He held the small book open to Act I, scene ii of William Shakespeare's _The Tempest_, where Meg's exact words glinted on the page in midnight ink. It warmed her heart whenever someone caught her quoting; it was her secret pleasure and she did it incredibly often. She made no attempt to still the grin that crept over her face, and she met Erik's golden, mismatched eyes with a spark in her blue ones.

"You have a good memory," Erik said, his voice a bland suppression of a thousand emotions.

Meg shrugged, the compliment giving her the feel of speaking with an equal.

But all too soon, the moment was shattered.

"Odd, that with such a memory, you would forget my instructions _not to wander_!"

Meg flinched mightily, paling to the shade of marble. Her head spun as his voice boomed from everywhere at once, as physically forceful as if he had slapped her face.

He said no more just then, allowing the impact of his words to sink in without the hindrace of any extraneous angry shouting. In the silence, Meg became extremely aware that the man before her was indeed the infamous Phantom of the Opera. She cursed herself for however she had forgotten! He seemed to loom over her, dark and threatening – or maybe she was simply shrinking inside.

"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I…"

"Sorry is not acceptable, Mademoiselle Giry!" Erik said darkly, managing the feel of a forceful shout without raising his voice."

"I- "

"You have been caught wandering around my home—"

"I –" Green clouds forced their way across Meg's eyes.

"—with the obvious intent to wrongfully acquire some of _my_ possessions – "

The green clouds grew thicker and darkened to black.

"—without my permission! You have blatantly ignored—"

Meg's face grew painfully hot and heavy, as if all the blood in her body had suddenly rushed to her head. Her mind screamed a warning, but Erik's tirade held her motionless with his hypnotic tone.

"- my commands when, in fact, you owe me your life twice over!"

He began to say more, but Meg never heard it. Her face grew suddenly cold and light as the blood drained away from her head. The blackness grew deeper, and she found that she could no longer keep her legs underneath her.

Erik barely stopped speaking in time to catch her as her knees buckled and she plummeted towards the floor.


	31. A Contract and Cleaning

**Sorry for the incredibly long delay, guys. It shocks me (in the best way possible) that I'm having happy reviews trickle in even so long after my last update. That, and my incredible fortune in managing to see a traveling Broadway production of the play a few days ago, have revived this story and inspired me to update again! I will try to be more consistent, but I'm working on two more planned novels and another short story, so I alternate writing on everything. **

**But please enjoy, dear, dear readers. **

**Truly, your obediant servant, **

**Paige Turner**

**Chapter 26**

**A Contract and Cleaning**

Erik cursed himself as he stood in the middle of his library with his arms full of an unconscious heap of blue skirts and blonde curls. He staggered back a step and heaved the girl up into his arms, furious with himself. If he kept allowing the chit to overexert herself, she would never get better – and if she never got well again, she would never get out of his hair!

He hefted Meg again in his arms, and she groaned as the movement jostled her head. Foolish girl! It was her own fault that she was in this state… sleeping in the snow, not eating properly, physically taxing her body over and over – she should know better than to be up and about after such an illness!

Shaking his head angrily, Erik carried Meg back down the hallway and back into the Louis-Philippe room. He dropped her unceremoniously on the swan bed, turning angrily away as she bounced limply on the feather mattress. Then he paused. He straightened, breathed deeply, and let out a deep rush of air. Slowly, he sank down on the edge of the bed.

Why did this girl put him so on edge? Surely, his nerves were overwrought from enacting his plans with young Christine, but why should a simple chorus girl get under his skin so? Usually, the only person he tolerated such irritations from was his best and only friend, the _daroga_. The problem was that she was not "a simple chorus girl." She seemed to possess a wit, grace, maturity, and sadness beyond her years. Perhaps… perhaps the sad, wraithlike child even reminded him of himself at that age.

Erik shook his head as if the thought was an annoying fly he wanted to dismiss. He stood, adjusting his mask with four long bloodless fingers. There was work to be done, he supposed.

…

When Meg awoke, she thought that surely, this time, she _must_ be dreaming. She could have sworn she smelled the delicious aromas of frying bacon and fresh bread! She smelled those scents seldom enough in the Opera House above, and it baffled her.

That was, until she rolled over and saw the steaming silver platter balanced atop the cherry nightstand – bacon, eggs, toast, butter, and orange juice just waiting for her.

Meg jolted upright, nearly launching herself at the platter of food. He stomach growled ravenously as she snatched at a piece of bacon, chewing on it as she buttered her toast. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten…

She was halfway through the eggs when a suspicion hit her and her fork clattered against the platter. She felt suddenly cold. The memory of that heartless voice threatening violence for disobedience rang again in her ears, and she nearly threw up. What if… what if it was poisoned? Would that monstrous man seek to rid himself of her nuisance by assuring that she would kill herself, saving him the trouble? If so, then she had fallen right into his trap!

"It's not poisoned."

Meg choked on the last dregs of egg in her throat and spun to face the voice at the doorway, staring wildly through the black lace curtain that ringed the bed. Candlelight glinted off his yellow catlike eyes as the Phantom leaned casually against her closed door. He looked mysterious and powerful, enigmatic and utterly unshakable, and Meg drew the thick velvet blankets up to her chest. His burning eyes upon her made her uneasy.

He spoke again.

"I haven't spent four days nursing you back to health only to kill you now. Eat."

Meg didn't move. "You… you cooked this… for me?" she asked softly.

The slightest incline of the masked head.

"And… and you've cared for me?"

Another faint nod.

Slowly, so as not to make herself dizzy, Meg raised the curtain and rose out of the swan bed. She wrapped her arms around herself as she walked ever so slowly towards Erik's motionless body, approaching him the same way one would a wild animal. Slowly, silently, very aware that her dress hung revealingly loose on her wasted frame, keeping her eyes firmly on the richly carpeted floor, she walked to right in front of Erik's relaxed body. Up close, she could see that he wasn't as relaxed as he appeared – every muscle was taught and visible under his dress suit.

With the fluid grace of a lifetime of dancing, Meg knelt before him. The gesture of submission and thanks was ancient, but somehow it felt extremely appropriate.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice meek but clear. She folded her hands demurely in her lap, watching the glint of her reflection in Erik's highly polished shoes. "I have been most disrespectful to you, and I thoroughly apologize. I would that you would allow me to make it up to you. I am your humble servant."

Erik was stunned. Where had the strong-willed, independent girl who had fainted some hours ago gone? Surely she would not give up so quickly! He didn't trust it. Perhaps she had hit her head…

He sank down onto his heels, crouching balanced on the balls of his feet. Meg bowed her head lower respectfully. He placed one bare finger near her jaw, expecting her to raise her head to keep from touching him, but she did not move until he tilted her chin up himself. Slowly, her eyes met his, immense sorrowful blue pools unresisting to his yellow hawk's search. He could sense no malice in her, as much as he tried. Well, well – what new surprises did this child have in store for him?

Abruptly he stood. Meg did not move.

"Finish your breakfast and wait for me here. I will return shortly."

He turned and exited, closing the door rather forcefully behind him.

…

Alone in the room, Meg stood fluidly and smiled. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress, barely stifling a giggle. She congratulated herself silently as she walked back to her nightstand, grabbing a piece of toast to eat as she paced around the room.

She didn't believe she had him totally convinced, of course, but no matter. He would believe her when she served him willingly. After all, she was forced into it anyway… but there was something about him. Under that mask and menace, she sensed something… _someone_ beautiful and sad. A soul that simply needed a friend. She knew all too well that feeling of loneliness, but she thought that he would certainly be even worse off.

And she _was_ sorry. Now that her anger had died, she was rather ashamed of how boorishly she had behaved. Not that she blamed herself, but she was in the wrong. And maybe he didn't hear that enough. Maybe she didn't say it enough. And, again, there was something about him…. She really couldn't afford to be angry any longer. It took more energy than she had, and it would not be conducive to a pleasant stay.

As she trod the length of the room, she couldn't resist a few twirling dance steps. She couldn't believe the simple brilliance of how things were turning out. By surrendering, he would be more receptive to her. Odds were, he would be hinder and more open-minded about her if he thought her a willing subordinate. It was the way of countless Parisian wives with their husbands. That thought gave Meg a frightened shiver, but as the Phantom's… _Erik's_ attentions were so obviously focused elsewhere, she didn't see why she couldn't use the same tactic here. She sat down, now hungry again, ready to finish her breakfast until such time as the P… as Erik came to collect her.

…

Once free of the girl's presence, Erik leaned heavily on the stone wall. He sighed, utterly bewildered. What a change of heart. It seemed that it only took three possible-death experiences to make the girl penitent, to make her realize her situation. She _should_ be sorry. She should…

_What_, he asked himself bitterly. _She should serve you? Since when have you been interested in keeping women – anyone – in servitude? Do you style yourself another shah, to think of women as property? Are you no better than those womanizing idiots?_

He sighed. Well, she had to have _something_ to do. Perhaps if she were occupied with menial tasks, she would be content to keep out of his hair… as it were. As long as she was… correspondent to command, perhaps she could actually be of use. After all, she had proven herself a resourceful underling. Perhaps now he could concentrate on enacting his plans for his dear Angel.

Pushing himself off the wall with the creaking of ancient bones, he walked the short distance to the Louis-Philippe room as if making a death march.

"Meddlesome… impertinent… disobedient…"

He silenced his grumblings as he reached the door and tapped lightly three times upon its oak surface. He could hear a faint, indistinct humming from the room beyond that silenced immediately at his knock.

"Yes?" His sharp ears caught the almost guilty sound in her nonchalant reply. He briefly wondered what she had gotten into that she would feel guilty for, but upon opening the door found her reclining innocently on the bed. Her long frame was stretched out, her hands folded demurely on her stomach, her ankles barely visible crossed under the hem of her pale skirts, her face a mask of emotionless calm atop the pillows and behind a tastefully re-applied layer of makeup.

He realized he had paused at the sight of her when she repeated her cool inquiry.

"Yes?"

When he replied, his voice came out harsher than he had intended.

"As long as you must remain under my supervision, since I doubt you have the sense or willpower to adequately care for yourself, I suppose you can make yourself of some use to me. Can you clean?"

Her face was increasingly masklike as she gently inclined her head in the affirmative.

"Can you cook?"

Meg averted her gaze slightly to show the negative. He wasn't surprised. There was no call or place for her to learn to cook in an Opera House.

Erik sighed. He predicted that he would be doing an inordinate amount of sighing in the near future.

"Very well. Follow me."

He turned slowly, his face down, and opened the door for Meg. The small courtesy replaced the almost invisible smile on Meg's wan face with blank curiosity. As he stepped past her and drew the door snugly to, she considered his thin form. As she followed him down the long hall, she thought _What a gentleman he is!_. His body kept hers in shadow, as the torches along the hallway were dark and the only light came from the many candles in the distant living room. _It's so strange… not at all what one would expect. He's distant, yes, and insufferably superior and commanding. But… there's something so very _human_ about him. _He would have to see… in their time together… She trailed off into wordless reflection.

Erik led her to the kitchen, where he pointed out a cupboard that held cleaning oils, polishes, rags, a bucket, and a black feather duster.

"What about a broom, a mop?" Meg asked, the dutiful housekeeper familiarizing herself with her post.

Erik gestured to a shadowy corner beside the pantry. "And you are not to tamper with the contents of this cupboard," he added, tapping an oak-paneled door with a single bony finger. "It contains my herbs and potions. I hate to think what would happen should I need to cure someone again, only to find that all of my medicines had been misplaced or mislabeled."

He gave her a long, hard look. For one such as he who distrusted humanity so, he was loath to leave this meddlesome girl unattended in his home. Still, he could not afford to waste time watching over her, when he was so ensnared in his plans for Christine, when time was running out for his _Don Juan Triumphant!_.

Meg felt uneasy under the weight of his burning gaze, but she tilted her chin up and forced herself to meet the black eyeholes of the mask and the glowing amber drops beyond. He would be able to trust her – he had to believe that.

After a long moment, Erik abruptly spun on his heel and strode from the room. He called back over his shoulder, "I'll be in my room, and under no circumstances am I to be disturbed." He punctuated this command with the sharp slamming of his bedroom door.

Meg stared down the long hallway after her departed captor. Was this her chance to escape? Would he think to catch her if she just walked out? But where was "out," exactly? She knew she was underground from the stuffy air and complete lack of natural light, and she guessed that that water she could feel and smell was the Populaire's immense fabled underground lake. That put her on a dark stone island with no knowledge how to get off or what direction to travel once she did.

_Besides_, she thought as she undid the sash she had tied at her waist and tied it over her hair as a kerchief, _I like being helpful_. And she really didn't feel like going back to the bustle of a new production in her weakened state.

"What with the mess I made of my audition, there's no way I got the part. And this way I'll come in when the rest of the chorus knows their moves and skip those hours of tedious drilling!" She spoke aloud as she dutifully removed a small bucket, soap, and two rags from the cabinet of cleaning materials.

Erik listened to her optimistic voice from behind his closed door, and couldn't resist opening it a crack. He silently watched as she carried a full bucket of soapy water to the corner of the living room beside his massive and exceedingly cluttered organ. He saw her long fingers twitch as her demurely covered head turned to the disordered instrument. His malformed lips curved in a rare smile behind the porcelain mask. She was just like dear Antoinette – once she put her mind to getting a task done, she put her whole heart into doing it right. However, she carefully stepped away from his precious organ and its disordered stacks.

"Another time, perhaps," she told the organ quietly, laying a gentle hand on its thinnest brass pipe.

Erik closed the door silently and retreated to his small writing desk as Meg began to scrub the black stone walls. He would put all thought of the girl out of his mind as she worked. He thought that he could trust her to know what not to mess with. And with her suitably occupied, they could stay out of each others' way… and _no one_ would get hurt.


	32. Travail and Talk

_I know it's been a long time... a really long time... since I updated, but hopefully someone will still read this. Now that school has started (I'm in college!) I write for an hour three times a week (that's also called Chemistry lecture) and more when I'm not doing homework, so I hope to update again soon. Please review!_

**Chapter 27**

**Travail and Talk**

Meg soon settled into her life in the sunless halls of Erik's subterranean home. The cleaning was good for her, keeping her active and healing while requiring relatively little strenuous movement on her part. And now that she had a definite task with which to occupy her mind, her burning anger against her masked jailor seemed to evaporate. A large grandfather clock behind the candle rack in the den marked the time, but otherwise the passing of the hours was imperceptible in the still air. But Meg didn't mind – the cleaning gave her something constructive to do that was not hindered by her still all-too-frequent fits of coughing or dizziness.

She saw little of Erik in those next few days. Meg would retreat into her bedroom on the rare and irregular instances that Erik emerged from his room to cook. The first time she saw him after she began her work, he had finally removed his suit jacket and looked much more relaxed until he caught sight of her cleaning. She had not been expecting him to come out, having lost track of the time, and her heart nearly burst out of her chest when he gave a sudden cry of rage and snatched the broom from her grip.

Her heart thudded wildly as the rush of adrenaline made her vision swim with green. She ignored her own swaying as she turned and shouted, "What do you think you're doing?"

"What do you think _you're _doing?" he spat back at her, his eyes glowing in the candlelight.

"I'm cleaning, you fool, what did you think? You wanted me to clean, so leave me be to do it right!" Meg was so unnerved by being frightened that she didn't even register the insult, and it seemed Erik did the same.

"I think you're killing innocent creatures!" he growled dangerously.

Meg blinked. "The spiders?" All she had been doing was using the broom to sweep the cobwebs from the dark corners of the living room walls.

"Yes, _the spiders_," he said, mimicking her voice accurately and cruelly. "What have they done to harm you? Why destroy them?"

"I'm not destroying them for sake of what they are. If they built their homes elsewhere, I'd have no thought for them! But this is a house for humans, not spiders—"

"Do they not have the right to hide in the darkness, to crouch in the shadows of human life and beauty? If they harm none, should they be persecuted for what they might do, judged by what they are, assumed dangerous for—"

Meg gasped in a sudden realization and choked on the phlegm in her throat. Her mind worked furiously as she coughed into the trailing end of her scarf. _This isn't about just the spiders,_ she realized. _He sees himself as sheltering innocent creatures who just want to hide away from the world and the light. And he sees me killing them for not belonging around people. _

_Oh._

_Well, that doesn't mean I want to have spiders running all over the place!_

_But it is _his _home. _

As she coughed, Erik loomed furiously over her shaking form. He stepped very close to her, his eyes mad and frightening. He leaned down to where his mask was shoved in her face, and even through the rag still pressed to her mouth Meg could swear she smelled the death on him.

"I have worked tirelessly for several days now to ensure your well-being, Mademoiselle Giry. But if I find you attempting to injure any life in my household again, I swear that you will regret that I did not simply leave you to freeze on that rooftop, or drown in your own fevered memories."

Meg's heart nearly stopped with his chilling words. Suddenly she was back in her nightmares. She had forgotten… but his terrible hypnotic voice pulled her mind in on itself, and suddenly she was that frightened little girl again, cowering before her enraged father before the beatings started.

Some tiny part of her mind fought to hold onto the present. She gasped as though her lungs had momentarily forgotten how to work, and her eyes flickered up emptily at Erik's mask.

He let the silence stretch as he watched her mind fumbling with his words and meaning. His mind seethed. How _dare_ this impudent wretch? Before she could collect her wits, he leaned in close and, in his most compelling voice, he cried furiously, "Get out of my sight, you ignorant, foolish, heartless little child!"

…

Meg fled then without thought and did not emerge from the safety of the Louis-Philippe room until the grandfather clock had chimed two more hours. By then, all the angry sounds of banging pots and slamming cabinet doors had been long silent. She ventured out warily, not wishing to too soon encounter her furious roommate. The memory of his anger was still frightening. He had looked angry enough to murder, and all over a few tiny arachnids! It was madness, his unpredictable madness that she feared.

In the kitchen, Meg found a pot of unidentifiable soup still sitting on the eye of the wood stove. She stoked the fire and warmed it back up, eating a small bowl along with an apple she found in the pantry. Her stomach rumbled for seconds, to replace what it had lost to her illness, but she ignored its gurgles and carefully washed her bowl. It would be bad manners to gorge herself on the Phantom's… Erik's… shared food.

She returned to work for several more hours without being disturbed. She scrubbed all the walls of the living room and her hallway (without agitating any more spider webs) and dusted the mantle and the grandfather clock. She scraped away the wax that had dripped onto the massive iron candelabra along the back wall and set the shavings into a pot on the stove to melt down. Erik emerged once, as she knelt in front of the bright mass of candles, and Meg scampered away and down the hallway to the Louis-Philippe room before he could say a word. She didn't want to give him the chance to wreck the fragile, peaceful silence that had settled over the _little house on the lake _over the last few hours. Erik stared after her fleeting form with such consternation that he promptly forgot why he had ventured out in the first place, and returned to his room immediately.

The pair spent the next day apart, stubbornly avoiding one another. While Erik remained holed up in his room, Meg finished washing the walls, took the cushions of the couch onto the shore of the lake and beat them soundly, removing clouds of dust, swept and mopped the floors, and organized the pantry. Only then did she allow herself to venture near the magnificent and enormous pipe organ. When Erik materialized once again and observed the loving way she dusted the ivory keys, polished its brass pipes, oiled its varnished claw-footed legs, and delicately avoided the stacks of music manuscripts atop the laden shelf, he found his anger at the ailing young woman evaporating into approval. He emerged from the shadows unnoticed by the enraptured girl, and reached a gloved hand towards his manuscripts, to remove them to the safety of his room before Meg's curiosity prompted her to rearrange them.

Meg jumped at his sudden presence and clutched a bony hand to her heart. It had been pounding all day as her body fought the sickness, but her surprise and fear at her jailer's silent arrival caused it to beat with a wild pain that caused her to double over with a grimace. She put out a hand to keep from collapsing and her fingers met the ivory keys of the pipe organ. A hideous chord issued forth and without thinking Erik snatched her hand away, supporting her weight with his own deceptively strong gloved hand. He flinched slightly behind the mask as her hand tightened around his, but he did not pull away. He knew the pain of an overtaxed heart, and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to snatch his hand from her grasp.

After an agonizingly long minute for both of them, Meg's heart no longer thumped quite so painfully and she was able to straighten and release her deathgrip on Erik's glove, but not before she noticed the way she could feel the sharp bones of his large hands through the leather. She turned away in shame at allowing herself to be so surprised and wiped her polish-covered hands on her skirt.

"Sorry," she murmured, keeping her head down as Erik reached for his manuscripts once more.

He stopped with his hand outstretched, then turned to face Meg. He noticed the way her hands twisted nervously into the folds of her skirt under his gaze.

When he spoke, his voice was soft and impossibly beautiful. "I would be honored if you would join me for dinner tonight, Mademoiselle Giry."

Her head jerked up at his suggestion, and she studied the mask suspiciously. "I would be delighted," she said warily. His sudden curiosity was confusing, and his close scrutiny was unsettling. However, she wanted to learn more about her captor, and that could not be done by ignoring him.

"Very well," Erik said, his voice a myriad of emotions. "I shall collect you when the meal is prepared."

…

…

"Tell me a little about yourself, Mademoiselle Giry."

She looked at him reproachfully from under her bangs. They sat across Erik's small round kitchen table, a small feast spread between them. Erik wore an immaculate elegant dress suit, and she had even found a backless pale pink dress with pale ruffled sleeves in the armoire of the Louis-Philippe room that fit her decently. Despite the rare need for Erik's culinary skills, he had managed to procure a delectable array of meats and vegetables that filled the _dining room on the lake_ with delicious aromas. Their entire meal had been filled with suspicious courtesies and vain attempts to feel each other out. "I doubt that there is anything I could tell you that you do not already know, Monsieur," she said guardedly.

"Humor me, if you will." The sightless eyeholes of the mask never wavered from her face, searching.

Meg sighed. "There is nothing to know. My mother and I have lived here for ten years, and during that time I have danced and she has taught. Nous n'avons pas riche, mais… we get by, even if I'm currently not dancing and Maman has lost her job as a box attendant. But you already know all that." She picked at her peas unenthusiastically. "Why ask me?"

"I do 'know all that' already, Mademoiselle. What I would like to know is how you came to be here."

Meg's face was carved of ice, cold and pale and hard. "I came with my mother, ten years ago."

"Why?" Meg was silent. "Was it because of your father?"

The silence following Erik's soft question was deathly. Meg stood abruptly and threw her wadded napkin down hard onto the table. She glared furiously at Erik, and he was surprised to see tears shining in her overbright eyes. "Bastard," she hissed, then turned and fled back to the Louis-Philippe room.

Erik stared after her in disbelief. He was surprised at himself for his prying. What had he done? If only he hadn't pressed her, she would have told him willingly in time. Why had he pried so; didn't she have the right to keep secrets from the world, same has he? But he found himself unable to quench the intense fire of curiosity that burned inside him. Ever since he had heard her crying out in her sleep against her father, he had needed to know what he had done to cause the ladies Giry to leave and seek work at his Opera House, and he needed the damning evidence from the child's own lips.

Leaving his unfinished venison and vegetables on the china plate, he rose and padded silently through the candlelit living room to the Louis-Philippe room. He paused at the door, listening, but he heard no sounds of tears from the room beyond.

He rapped softly on the wood and was met with silence. After a moment he asked softly, "May I come in?" Without trying, his voice easily penetrated the door and wrapped sensually into the ears and mind of the girl inside.

"No," came the harsh reply. "And _stop that_." Her voice was poisonous and filled with a burning hate.

Erik sighed. He should explain himself….

"Christine once told me that you frequently wake screaming and crying in the night from memories of your life before you came to my Opera House, and in your fevered state you cried out against your father several times in your dreams."

There was silence from inside the room.

"I just… wanted to know…." He could try to make the child tell him, with the magical persuasive power of his voice, but he had observed such a strong will in her that he half doubted it would work if she resisted. And given her vicious reaction to his unintentional ventriloquism, he strongly suspected that she would resist.

"You want to hear my sob story?" There was a slightly hysterical edge to the spiteful shout that met Erik's ears. "Come in, then, and I'll tell you."

Erik quietly cracked the door open, cautiously sticking his head through the opening, wary of something being thrown across the room at his mask. He found Meg sitting in the swan bed, curled tightly around a large dark velvet pillow. Her eyes were squeezed shut tight and her pale back rose and fell deliberately as she attempted to calm herself. Finally she raised her disheveled face to stare blankly at the far wall. How ironic it was, how his quiet tone as he asked permission to enter a room in his own house made the knot around her heart loosen and become a little less painful. She refused to face Erik. She didn't want him to see her face red and swollen from restrained tears.

Erik silently shut the door and took a seat in the small makeup chair, sitting straddling it backwards with his arms folded over the back of it, waiting silently for Meg to begin her tale.


	33. Pity and Pain

_Hey look. I updated! I hope you are still reading and enjoying! _

**Chapter 28**

**Pity and Pain**

"Maman met Father when she was just like me – young, innocent – just a ballet rat performing on this very stage," she began, her voice as hollow and distant as an ancient mystic storyteller's. "Papa was an amazingly handsome and wealthy young man – Baron Rudolphe Giry. He fell in love with Maman's talent at the dance and her beauty. He courted her and eventually married her, and they were wonderfully happy until I was born.

"I've always felt it was my fault, you know," she continued, bitterness creeping into her tone. "Papa never wanted a girl, of course. He blamed Maman for not giving him a son, especially when complications from my birth prevented her from bearing another child. We both almost died, but he didn't care. He stopped loving her when I was born, I think.

"It wasn't always so bad. Sometimes, I remember, after Mass, God would remind him what a wonderful family he had, and he would be loving. He would take Maman out to dinner at fancy cafés, or would take me out horseback riding in the country or give me pretty dolls. But then a business deal would go sour, or whatever, and he would turn to the bottle… or worse.

We always tried to love him. Maman always clung desperately to the teachings of forgiveness the Church preached and loved him faithfully, but we were still both useless in his eyes. I always knew that I was a burden to him, too small and thin and pointless. He never entertained the idea that I could be taught to keep the accounts, or really anything useful other than housekeeping. But then sometimes he wouldn't let me do that either. He never made much sense when he was drunk. Sometimes when Maman and I would try to straighten the house, he would hit us and ask what his associates would think if they saw us cleaning, like he couldn't provide adequate servants for his own family. That's why…"

She hunched her back more over the pillow she clutched, and she knew from Erik's sympathetic hiss of breath that he had seen the candlelight glint off the dozens of shiny pocked scars that marred the pale skin of her back. She shrugged her bony shoulders.

"I cried all the time then. I cried when he hit me or shouted, of course, but I cried the most whenever Maman still tried to love him. She tried to be so perfect for him, to run the house just right and be the perfect submissive shadow of a wife that he wanted then, but it never worked. She was such a strong woman, but under the constant abuse she was like a rock battered by a raging river. No mater how strong she was, he wore her down until she nearly fell. Sometimes he wouldn't even let her go to Mass, so others wouldn't see her awful bruises.

"She taught me everything. When Father was out, she would teach me to dance and sing. Those were the happiest times of my life. Dancing gave me something beautiful to do with my too-long limbs, and I sang all the time. When he was drunk, Father was very critical of my singing. I daresay that's why I'm too afraid to sing in public now, but I loved it so I sang anyway. Until Father beat it out of me."

Her head whipped around at a sharp creak of wood under strain. Erik sat stonily on her chair, skeletal hands clenched on the chair's back in a white-knuckled deathgrip.

"Continue," he growled, sounding barely controlled.

"He cared less and less for us as I grew older. We could do nothing right. Some nights, when I sat in my window, watching for his carriage to come home, I would see another woman in there with him. I knew Maman knew, but she never said anything. I wanted to love him, but I hated him for what he did to her."

Even knowing the horrors of his own past, Erik's mind reeled at the thought of such atrocities being done to a young child. And for no reason at all! No wonder she had stopped singing guiltily when he had knocked on her door the other day. No wonder she danced with such reserve. Why should any normal child deserve such treatment? Hot anger boiled in his veins as violent images of what Baron Rudolphe Giry deserved for his wickedness chased each other around his mind.

"What made you finally decide to leave?" he managed to force out, his voice choked with barely bottled rage.

"These," Meg said with a sigh, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder at the innumerable tiny white scars on her back. "I was cleaning in our parlor one day when I was seven years old, and Father came home more drunk or drugged than I could remember him ever being. It was one of those days when everything I did was wrong, and… well… he ended throwing me into a tray full of brandy glasses. They shattered and glass was embedded all over my back. I was bleeding very badly, and Maman was worried that if a doctor didn't get the glass near my spine out soon, I might become paralyzed. Father didn't want her to take me to the doctor because then someone would know what he had done. He would have let me be paralyzed rather than let someone see his crimes.

"Maman finally stood up for us. She called the footman and had me taken to the hospital, and we never went back. Maman wrote an old friend who knew the managers of the Opera House, and she was hired as assistant ballet instructor and I was put in the ballet corps once my back healed and there was no more danger to my spine. And so, to answer your original question, _that_ is how we came to be here."

Meg fell silent then, letting the weight of her story settle over the darkness. She had never told anyone why she and her mother had left home. She had never even discussed it with Maman, knowing the memories would only hurt her. Maybe, just talking to this strange masked man would take away some of the weight that had tied down her spirit for the past ten years.

"Do you know where he is now?" Erik's tone was that of an assassin taking notes on the whereabouts of his next victim.

"No. I suspect he's living quite comfortably somewhere without our burden. He never sought us out, though I like to think that it was kindness that made him want to protect us from himself. He was always kind… when he was sober…"

A hot anger was boiling through Erik's veins as he processed the Giry girl's story. So that was why the child was so shy despite the obvious inner strength that drew friends to her. That was why dear Antoinette was so fiercely independent – she didn't want to make the mistake of not standing up for herself ever again. That was why Antoinette was so loyal to him for promising Meg a prosperous future – she didn't want her daughter to have to fend for herself any longer.

It all made a wicked kind of sense, Erik thought. But his fury at the lifetime of injustices still coursed swiftly through him.

He needed to get to his organ… to his music…

"Meg," he said stiffly, uncomfortable with using her Christian name, "I would appreciate it very much if you were to go outside the house and sit on the bank of the lake. Take something to plug your ears, and please… hum to yourself… or something…"

Meg suddenly realized the slipping fingerhold with which Erik was grasping at his self-control. A hot fear flooded her body as her wide eyes watched Erik's clenched fist shaking in his lap.

"Mon Dieu…" she whispered.

In an instant, Meg was gone from the room in a flurry of blond hair and pink wool. She flew out the front door and onto the graveled shore of Erik's island, falling in a heap in the shallows of the icy lake. Ripples spread out from the impact of her now-soaked skirts. She gasped, choking down coughs. There was a horrible bitter taste in her mouth from the near palpable anger in the Louis-Philippe room that erased the flavorsome remnants of dinner.

She remained kneeling in the water, letting the icy liquid soak up her skirts and freeze her legs. Her heart was pounding painfully against her ribs, and she brushed her bangs away from her forehead with a dripping hand. She never would have considered that anyone would react so violently to her past! After all, she believed she had made peace with her father's actions and shortcomings years ago. She breathed deeply of the damp, slightly fresher air and sighed – and in her haste to escape the thick atmosphere of anger, she forgot to heed Erik's pleaded instructions.

The dramatic first chord of powerful organ music hit her unexpectedly and seemed to grip her soul in a tight, hot fist. A wave of anger not her own seized her, and she gave a cry and clasped her hands to her temples. The pain usually associated with a blind rage beat against her skull, and her heart began to flutter wildly in her chest. Through the mind-numbing anger she knew that Erik was pouring all of his hurt at the injustices of the world into the carefully cleaned ivory keys of the enormous pipe organ, and that she had become the unwilling vessel filled by his inhuman fury.

She had no idea how long the beautiful, tortuous music played. All she knew was that each instant that the song gripped her soul she felt that she would die from all the rage rushing through her veins. It seemed to go on without the restriction of time, the pure, beautiful emotion draining all thought out of her. By the time the half-angelic, half-demonic music finally faded out, Meg felt her consciousness slip away on the decrescendo, to float away across the lake and echo off the stone walls until it faded into silence.

…

As his music faded, Erik let his skeletal hands fall folded into his lap. His chest felt hollow, empty from emotion and utterly calm. All his fury had faded, and now peace – as much peace as he ever had – filled the air. After several minutes had passed in which the only sounds were his soft breathing and the faintest humming echo of his song in the air, he remembered the girl. He supposed he should collect her from the shore of the lake. If she had plugged her ears properly, she wouldn't know that his song was done.

He sighed and pushed himself off the bench. His step was lighter as he crossed the living room and exited through the front door. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his old heart. It had been far too long since he had truly played his organ.

That weight came crashing back down onto him as he rounded the outside corner of the Louis-Philippe room and spotted the crumpled pink form in the shallow water of the icy lake. With a painful tightening in his chest, he broke into a noiseless run that carried him swiftly over the tightly packed grey gravel. In his near-panic, he fell to his knees beside the unconscious girl without a care for the knees of his ­­immaculate suit. His breath caught in his throat as he rolled her limp form over onto her back. He brushed her hair, now curled by the damp, away from her marble-white skin, and saw the long red tracks of raw claw marks that ran down her cheeks. He saw the ripped and rumpled fabric of her sleeves and bodice, and rolled up a sleeve to reveal crescent-shaped pinch marks and large bruises marring her thin arm. A peek through the rips on her bodice revealed the same injuries on her torso.

Erik cursed himself violently in his mind. How could he have been so _stupid_ as to subject this innocent young girl to his raw and unearthly emotion? Such a self-loathing and new anger washed over him that he had to turn away from Meg's unconscious body, unable to gaze upon the results of his heathenish auditory rape.

He stood rigid, gazing out over the calm icy waters of the lake, clenching and unclenching his bare fists until he heard the faintest moan from the ground beside him. He turned and saw Meg give a feeble stir. With a broad, infinitely relieved grin, Erik fell again to his knees beside her, gently cradling her head and shoulders as her eyelids fluttered.

"It's alright," Erik murmured, his angelic voice soothing and apologetic. "I'm so sorry."

Meg smiled comfortably, and slowly opened her eyes to meet his. It was then that Erik realized one horrible, devastating fact.

He had left his mask on top of the organ.


	34. Considering and Conquering

_What you've got to understand is that I think that to have characters who do not react with horror to Erik's face downplays the severity of his deformity. I don't like stories that do that. Hope y'all enjoy. _

**Chapter 29**

**Considering and Conquering**

The silence only lasted long enough for Meg to draw a shaky breath, and then a piercing shriek split the still, damp air. A paralyzing numbness gripped Erik, and he remained kneeling as Meg scrambled away form him, her eyes huge with terror. He reached out a hand feebly to grasp her damp skirt, but she wrenched the pale fabric away, her gaze still locked with his. Her icy hands flew to her marred face, to wipe away the tears, and a horrified look came over her face. She fell to her knees and threw up into the gravel. She numbly felt the deep claw tracks down her cheeks and her shriek grew words.

"What the hell did you do to me?" she cried, wheeling back to face him but unable to force her eyes to his—his horrible, _horrible_ face! Every story she had made up for Christine came crashing back to her. It was a wonder that Christine had believed her—a face that twisted should never have been explained away by anything she could think up!

"Meg…" Erik said, his voice hypnotically beautiful.

"No!" she shrieked, and threw a handful of gravel at him in a fury. "Don't you dare try to charm me with that damn—_bewitching_ voice of yours!"

"Meg—" Erik began again, but she threw another handful of gravel, this time down at the ground so that the rocks bounced up all around her.

"You _monster_!" she shrieked. "You beast! How _dare_ you let me pour my heart out to you?" She hugged herself and winced as she touched her bruised and bleeding arms. "How dare you violate my mind with your unholy music?" She threw another small rock at Erik, but her eyes were so blurred with tears now that it sailed harmlessly over his head to land with a soft _plop_ in the lake. "How dare you…" she began, but a cough and a sob forced themselves out of her throat. "How dare you…" she began again, but softer, and more sobs fought for control of her voice. "How dare you… how dare you…" She finally trailed off into sobs of pure emotion, the strain of the last half hour crashing over her. She curled into a ball, her forehead pressed unfeelingly against the cool hard gravel.

Erik stared at her, his mutilated face blank and open. Oddly, he felt no urge to shout at her as he had raged at Christine when she tore away his mask, no desire to strangle, to kill, as he had felt when Christine had screamed at the sight of his face. He felt cold and empty as he stared at the blonde girl in her ball, so thin and weak from her sickness. Her sobs had changed into silent shakes, though he could still see tears pouring from her eyes through her hair.

"Meg," he began again softly, and stood to go to her. She twitched her head in a pained motion of denial and feebly threw one last piece of gravel. It bounced across the ground and came to rest against the toe of Erik's right shoe. He sighed, and continued towards her anyway. He bent over her and gently gripped her shoulders, above where the claw marks tracked their grid across her arm, and slowly pulled her upright. She kept her head down and he resisted the urge to support her more fully by holding her closer. Some part of his mind was repulsed by the thought of comforting this young woman who had screamed at the sight of him, who had called him _monstre_, but he felt too empty to care. The good manners of his childhood took over, and he civilly escorted Meg to the Louis-Philippe room. He guided her to the swan bed and gently lowered her onto its cushioned mattress. She did not stop crying during their brief walk or once they arrived in her room, and Erik realized that her nerves were so shot that she was beyond reasoning. Silently, he pulled the cord to lower the black lace curtain around the swan bed. Then he turned and exited, shutting the door silently behind him.

…

Complete and utter silence reigned over the _little house on the lake_ for the next several hours. Meg did not emerge from her room even after her unwilling sobs subsided, and Erik only came out once a day to make sure that Ayesha had food and water. Otherwise, they stayed in their rooms at opposite sides of the house.

Oddly, Erik was unable to stop Meg's accusing shouts from replaying over and over in his head in the silence. He was afraid to play his organ or violin, as he so desperately wanted to, for fear of invading the delicate sanctity of Meg's mind again. He raged silently at higher powers that he should be given a gift with the power to bring such pleasure… and yet he caused so much pain. Unable to distract his mind, he tried several times to read, but he could not focus. His mind was painfully alert, though, so he could not sleep to quiet his aching soul. In fact, a wave of disgust would wash over him whenever he looked at his velvet-lined coffin—just another reminder of the living corpse that he was. Instead, he studied his reflection for long hours in the burnished reflector of an oil lamp, having banned all mirrors save the one in his angel's rooms long ago. He cruelly examined each tortured fold of his papery skin, followed each translucent vein, prodded his twisted lips and the deep sockets of his eyes. In his self-loathing, he had no doubts or confusion as to why his visage horrified all who gazed upon it. Though the sight of his own face burned his sunken eyes, he stared unblinkingly at his reflection, studying it until he had each nuance memorized. When he was certain that his twisted face would never again fade from his mind's eye, he abandoned his scrutiny and sat at his drawing desk. With a thin charcoal pencil, he began deliberately sketching his death's head. He wanted to see if he could recreate the vision of horror that was his face, or if the terror only lay in his living flesh.

A short while later, the paper bore a picture of a horrible, leering corpse's face. In a moment of irony, Erik added a roguishly tilted fedora atop his picture's head, and then sketched the folds of an evening cloak beneath the head in place of shoulders. His lips twisted as he stared at his likeness. The girl was right; he was a monster. Cruelly, he began sketching again in the space to the left of his own picture, a face he had drawn lovingly so many times before. He let his hand draw without active mental guidance, instinctively able to recreate the delicate curves of his angel's beauty. He only studied the image once it was finished, and was dismayed at the expression on the lovelier face. His angel looked sad, frightened—betrayed. Erik angrily swept one bony hand across the drawing, smudging the charcoal of Christine's face in his pain. He tried again in the space to the right of the corpse's face, leering under its feathered hat. Again he let his instincts take over, this time emptying his mind of his self-anger in an effort to create a more peaceful image.

But when he looked at his finished work, a wave of confusion swept over him. At the left side of the parchment, Christine's beautiful face stared pitifully up at him below its smeared curtain. In the center of the page, his twisted, disgusting face showed him the cause of all his unhappiness. He glossed over that; it hurt him to remember his hideousness. His gaze slid away to the face on the right, and he stiffened. He had meant to draw Christine, but this face was stronger; with a squarer jaw, a larger nose, straight light hair, unruly bangs, and fierce, flashing light eyes. It was the face of little Meg Giry, not sad or terror-stricken, but stubbornly reproachful. It was an odd expression, kind, but as though she expected him to be stronger. He stared at the image for several long minutes, then numbly reached out with the charcoal and gently added a few strands of hair falling softly onto her bare shoulders. There. He lifted the paper and leaned back in his chair, studying the smudged figure of his beloved and the challenging stare of his houseguest on either side of his own image. He held the parchment taut between his spidery hands, and wondered what it meant.

…

Meg, once her useless weeping had subsided, seemed to wake from her horrified stupor. The realization of what she had done, what she had said, struck her like a slap in the face. Now that Erik's demon face no longer hovered over her, she was appalled by her actions! How could she possibly have been so cruel, so—heartless! She curled into a ball and thumped her thighs viciously, furious at herself. Hadn't Erik proven himself a semi-perfect gentleman? Hadn't he cared for her, listened to her sob story, been kind and gentle to his little ingénue? He had done nothing to deserve her cruel words save being born. "Why, God?" she asked on his behalf. "Why curse him? Why try a man with such pain?" But as she prayed, she remembered the music that had ripped through her soul, leaving her spent in body and mind. She shuddered. Such raw emotion…born of such pain. "May you guide him, Lord, and let him not turn from you in his pain," she prayed for Erik, out of compassion for a broken soul rather than out of guilt for her actions.

Her sympathy, however, multiplied her sense of shame and anger a thousandfold. True, it _was_ a horrible, terrifying face, but that was no excuse for what she had said. She tried to call up the memory of his concerned, caring face, but her heart fluttered wildly and her hands gave an involuntary twitch. She clasped her hands over her chest and concentrated on recalling Erik's visage. The twisted corpse's face floated before her tightly shut eyes. Her breath came in long shuddering draws as she fought to keep herself calm. She concentrated on accepting that that was what lay behind the mask, remembering the infinitely worried look in his sunken eyes. Luckily, she was open-minded enough to not have serious difficulty in accepting this severe tilt of reality.

She was surprised by the lack of rage on Erik's part at their situation. Christine had said he had raged at her in a fury when she had seen his face. Meg nearly felt as sorry for Christine as she did for Erik. There was such love from Erik's half of the relationship, but Christine's love was not of the same breed. It was so…tragic…and Erik didn't deserve any more tragedy. She resolved to fix this situation.

Meg offered a quick prayer for strength, then leapt from her bed, driven by pure determination to help. She lit an oil lamp and checked her reflection, wiping her eyes forcefully. She touched up her makeup, though the ironic thought that it was silly to look nice for someone who would always look worse flitted across her brain. Then she brushed her hair and straightened her torn and rumpled dress, wincing as it pulled against her fresh injuries. She knew now that she had caused her own wounds in her anguish under Erik's musical barrage, and did not pause to blame him. Setting the hairbrush firmly down on the vanity top, she blew out the lamp and quit the room. She strode purposefully through the dark house towards the doorway of Erik's room.

…

Erik was jolted out of his idle consideration of his drawing by the knock at his door. He quickly set the parchment back on his desk and nearly scrambled for his extra mask. Fitting the porcelain securely atop his stretched skin, he smoothed his evening suit meticulously. Warily, he crossed to the door and opened it slowly.

Meg Giry stood there, her ice blue eyes flashing and her jaw set. She held his gaze with her expressive eyes as she reached up and laid a hand along the chilled cheek of his mask. He was so numb with shock that she would willingly visit him that he could not react when she smoothly removed the mask.

Though her gaze never softened or wavered, her voice as she spoke was low and gentle.

"To earn your forgiveness for my actions, I will assist you in any way possible, and I will help you win her heart."


	35. Conversation and a Curious Captivity

**Chapter 30**

**Conversation and a Curious Captivity **

Erik's first reaction was an act of anger and learned self-defense, and he violently snatched his mask out of Meg's clutching grasp. His second was from his ego, and his cold, beautiful voice sneered derisively, "How could a child like you possibly help me?"

Meg, who had stiffened affrontedly at his actions, barely managed to keep her voice demure as she tried to explain. "I could continue fill her head with the stories of the Angel of Music. I could…" she stalled as the memory of Raoul's handsome, hopeful face the night of the gala surfaced in her mind, "do my best to create a rift between her and her old friend, the Viscount." She searched for something else to say as Erik slammed a sheet of parchment onto his desk. "I could—"

"_Why?_" A flash of barely visible movement and he was standing in front of her, looming menacingly, a dark pillar of anger straight out of a nightmare, his question filling the air with a tangible echo. Meg gasped in surprise and Erik's cloying stench of death filled her mouth and nose, making her cough. She clapped her hands over her mouth and immediately Erik's ungloved hands seized her wrists, smearing the pale skin with charcoal stains. "Why would you suddenly offer to help me? You hated to help me to save your own mother's job, so why offer now? Is it _this_?" He jerked her hands violently towards his face so that her fingers scraped the cold porcelain of the mask. "Is it a pity offer? Will you help the hideous monster, because he could never win the angel's affection on his own?" He shook her wrists again so that she was jerked back and forth. "Well? _Is it_?"

"No!" Meg cried, confused and considerably shaken.

"Don't lie to me!" Erik boomed, his anger suddenly seizing him. His eyes glowed like fresh embers behind the mask, and Meg was absolutely terrified.

"Just… _let go_!" Driven by fear, Meg yanked her hands down as she kicked Erik hard in his left kneecap. Erik was so surprised that he actually released her, and he blinked as if she had just thrown cold water in his face. Meg didn't give him a chance to resume his tirade.

"Look, why do you thing I have to have some ulterior motive for offering to help? I'm really sorry for the way I acted, and I said as much, but that's not why I offered to help. That would be stupid. Do you realize what that would mean? I would be manipulating the feelings and future of my best friend out of a momentary sense of regret for an impulsive action. Give me credit for more sense, more sincerity than that. I say I will help you because… I think you deserve it. Not because you must have had a horrible, horrible life and probably deserve some happiness finally, or because I think you should be rewarded for treating me like a gentleman after I shouted at you. But I think you might really, really like her, probably even love her, and if that's the case then you should be given the opportunity to present it to her like a real man. I would never have minded doing that, especially not after all the voice coaching you did for her, and after you helped bring her such joy after the death of her father. But your secretive demands, your manipulations, your… being the creepy old man who wears a mask and lives underground, well, I guess I never gave you the chance I would have given someone… I had met normally. I just… I don't think you were really given a chance, by me or by her. You've spellbound her, you know, and she worships you like an angel. Not like a man. And that's all you are, and that's what you have to be. Not an ordinary man, but that's what you're counting on, right? So I'm offering to help you because, well, I think you might just be an incredibly decent guy, and I'd like to see you have a chance."

Meg's voice slowly faded from defensive to compassionate as her speech wound down, and when it was over even she looked surprised that she had said so much. Erik looked more than surprised, in fact; he looked shocked that anyone would say such things. Who could think that he deserved a chance at happiness like a normal man, when he was clearly such a monster? His ego supplied a number of witty and biting responses, but one look into Meg's large, understanding eyes, and he changed his mind about retorting.

"Thank you… for your offer of assistance," he said slowly, unsure of what to say. "Though, I don't see how you plan to help me in the near future; you must remain here for at least several more days, until I am certain you are well again."

Now it was Meg's turn to bite back a retort, but she couldn't keep her eyes from rolling exasperatedly. She was more than well enough to recover in her own room above.

"Now, Marguerite—" Erik began patiently.

"It's Megara," Meg interrupted. Erik seemed surprised. "I know most people think Meg is short for Marguerite, but it's not. It's short for Megara, the daughter of Creon in Greek mythology, whose children were killed by her husband Hercules in a fit of madness." The bitterness in her voice told Erik that she too wondered if there had been a specific reason Antoinette Giry had chosen that name.

There was a long pause as Erik studied Meg and she studied her hands. Finally Meg said, "Marguerite is the name of the female lead in _Faust_, isn't it?" When Erik warily nodded agreement, she continued, "I heard that _Faust_ was your favorite opera. Is that true? What is it that you like particularly about it? Is it the score, the choreography, the story itself? What do you think…"

Slowly, she coaxed Erik into a detailed discussion of the finer points of _Faust_, and they spent the next hours slowly analyzing the Populaire's current schedule of operas. She was openly in awe of his fantastic memory and musical understanding. She felt dwarfed by Erik's abilities, though; he could remember every chord and ever cadence from every opera, and could reproduce their sounds by humming softly or tapping his fingers against the wood of the doorframe. It seemed the Opera's entire library flowed through his veins, and she was witnessing a true musical genius in his element. However, she did her best to comment wherever her limited knowledge allowed. Erik found the change refreshing. For once, he had the opportunity to discuss the music, instead of the painstakingly methodical task of instructing Christine. He was grateful for Meg's attentiveness, and slowly the pair of them found their conversation growing more and more casual. For two people who had never learned to be comfortable in conversation, the experience was a pleasant change for both.

As the grandfather clock struck six in the evening, Erik's commentary of Monsieur Reyer's choices for the orchestra's phrasing in certain scenes of the recent performance of _Hannibal_ was interrupted by a loud gurgle from Meg's stomach. He was surprised; it was so easy for him to forget the passing of time when it came to music, and meals were always an option to him anyway. Still playing the polite host, Erik excused himself to prepare a light dinner.

Which Meg was both grateful for and exceedingly disappointed by. Grateful, because Erik's knowledge was so complete, so vast, that she felt utterly miniscule beside his vast talent. Disappointed for the same reason—Erik was unquestionably a genius. Listening to him discuss music was almost a religious experience, like listening to a preacher discuss the works of the Lord. The sudden silence of Erik's dinner preparations allowed the immensity of his knowledge to finally wash over her, and she suddenly realized that she desperately wanted to hear him say more. In fact, she couldn't understand why musicians all over the world didn't beg for him to teach them in theory and technique, but that could have been the effects of his hypnotic voice talking as well. This was a whole new store of information about her mysterious captor that would have to be studied at some later time.

…

Meg picked through Erik's excellent dinner of seared chicken flavored with unknown herbs. Her mind was still too overwhelmed from their earlier conversation to think of starting another. She occasionally thought about asking Erik to elaborate on one of the points he had made, but she didn't know if she could understand the answer no matter how simple he tried to make it. So the meal passed in silence.

After the two of them had finished eating and Meg had carried their dishes to the sink, Erik informed her that he would be heading above-ground on a brief errand.

Meg looked up from the sink. "What errand?" she asked. She couldn't see Erik's face behind the mask, but she could still tell that his expression was condescending. "Fine," she said, turning back to the sink full of dishes and looking around for a washing rag. After a while with no response from Erik, Meg looked up to find him gone.

When she had finished washing the dishes and wiping down the table and counters, and Erik had still not returned, she decided to wander back to the small library. She desperately wanted to browse through the books, but once she began to look around she felt so guilty about being back there uninvited that she left. After roaming about the house for a while, boredom beginning to seep in, she finally found Erik's funny white cat sleeping underneath the sofa. She reached under the furniture until she was almost touching the sleek animal and let her hand lie motionless until the cat decided to come to her. It was several minutes before Meg could coax the haughty beast out from the shelter of the couch, but when she did she scooped the cat up in her arms and held her close to her chest. After clawing Meg once out of surprised, Ayesha settled lazily into her bruised arms, purring.

Carrying the now-happy cat, Meg continued her pacing around the house. When she passed the door to the outside, she stared at it for several moments before cautiously opening it. The gravel beyond was lit only by the single torch stand next to the groove where Erik's black gondola was usually parked. Meg began pacing up and down the shore of the dark, still lake as far as the torchlight carried, which admittedly wasn't far. After more time had passed she returned to the gondola's docking trench and sat on the ground, the gravel digging into her bottom and legs through the dress. Shifting uncomfortably, she settled down to wait for Erik to return, idly petting the skinny cat or tossing pieces of gravel into the shallow waters. There she sat, on her island prison, awaiting the Phantom's return.

…

Despite Meg's boredom, it wasn't actually very long before Erik returned, gliding silently back into sight on the still waters. He did not show his surprise to see Meg sitting by the docking torch, but he did allow himself a smile when he saw his precious Ayesha clasped tight in her arms. It was a bit of a personal wound, though; after the finicky feline had taken a dislike to Christine, he had thought that he was the only one she liked. Now it seemed that she just disliked competing for Erik's affections.

Meg had to stand quickly to avoid being hit by the docking gondola, and it made her head swim again. Her vision cleared barely in time to catch a large portfolio of papers that Erik thrust at her before removing his large dark cloak.

"What's this?" Meg asked, setting Ayesha down to open the folder.

"Your lines," Erik said succinctly, scooping up the cat and turning to go back into his home. "You are not yet healthy enough to resume your training, but that is no excuse for you to lower the standard of quality I expect from performers in my opera house. You will begin rehearsals tomorrow, provided that you abide by the limits I set you." This would be nothing to him, after the painstaking care he had taken with training Christine's delicate voice. He would allow the child to practice and simply check that she did not overexert herself, until she was healthy enough to get out of his hair.

Meg bit her lip and glanced nervously from Erik's retreating back to the score in her hands. The portfolio contained the full score for _Il Muto_ and, in her mother's own handwriting, lists and simple diagrams of the ballet moves and chorus figures for each scene. Everything she could ever need to know about the upcoming opera was right in her hands. There was only one problem.

She couldn't actually read music.


	36. A Performing Problem

_Sorry, guys, school has been just kicking my butt. Seriously. Sorry again. And sorry this is short. I know I suck. Sorry. _

**Chapter 31**

**A Performing Problem**

All night long Meg fretted over her predicament. She knew Erik wouldn't accept having to teach her; his greatness was reserved strictly for training the likes of ingénues like Christine. Plus, she didn't want to make herself or her talent even smaller in comparison, both compared to Erik's mastery or Christine's natural purity.

And it wasn't like she was entirely ignorant of how to go about teaching herself. After all, she had just learned her audition material without any assistance, but she was only able to do that after having heard the music being rehearsed by the orchestra or hummed in practice by the other chorus members.

See, Meg's problem was that the notes just didn't translate to music inside her head. She could stare at the score and tell you the names of the notes but not what sounds they made. She could tell you what count a beat fell on but not always clap the rhythm. But what hurt her inside was just that there was _music_, right in front of her, in her hands, and she couldn't access it because of her own lack of talent.

Luckily for Meg, though, she had an excellent musical memory and incredible powers of mimicry. After once or twice of hearing a song, she would never forget its rhythm or words, and would know the vocals even if her own talent limited her parroting. After the third time of hearing it, she would have the motion of the dance memorized, even if the actual techniques sometimes got a little jumbled up. Honestly, it was only by copying others and the fact that her mother could still dance and sing that she was able to stay employed at the Populaire.

She went to sleep that night trying to think of the best way to tell Erik that she couldn't do it alone. She really didn't want to, and she couldn't expect him to help, but she couldn't just spend the hours she needed to be practicing just staring at the paper. In the end, she decided that all she could do was tell him the truth, and pray he would consent to help her.

The next morning, Erik turned from the breakfast he was cooking on the stove at the sound of leather placed gently on wood. He looked questioningly from the portfolio atop his table to Meg, her expression worried, her green-garbed arms hugging herself.

"I can't do it," she began after a deep breath, staring at the folder instead of at Erik's cold mask. She rushed quickly on, "When I was little, my father forbade music in our home. He said it was frivolous and a useless waste of time and paper. So I learned to sing and dance by mimicking my mother and people I saw performing on the street." She paused for another deep breath, then plowed on, "The point is, I've never been able to read music. I can understand what's on the page, but it doesn't _mean_ anything to me. I'm not a musician, I'm just a parrot, copying what I hear. So if you won't let me attend rehearsals, I'm afraid that I just can't perform this time." She coughed a few times, then finished softly, "I just can't do it alone."

After she finished speaking, Meg snuck a furtive look at Erik through the curtain of her bangs. Even though he had been careful not to appear before her maskless again, she could easily imagine the horrible face twisted with disgust and disappointment at her shortcomings. She winced as Erik stood silently and strode purposefully from the small kitchen, apparently unable to bear her presence any longer. She sank into one of the chairs and stared pleadingly at the leatherbound score on the table. If only she could appreciate its contents, if only she could _really_ read it, if she could hear with her eyes…

She opened the pages of thick parchment and studied a random page. Laboriously she tapped out the rhythm and tried to hum the notes. She was woefully off-key.

She frowned at the page and tried again, this time concentrating on _hearing_ the notes in her mind before they came out of her mouth. She thought that she could hear the faint echo of a mellow bassoon playing along with her humming, guiding her pitch. She stopped humming and smiled, pleased at being able to imagine a real pitch—and the bassoon kept going! She frowned, confused, and spun to face Erik with a grimace as he reentered the room. He did not look at her as he returned to the stove, but as a trombone joined the bassoon, she had to speak.

"That's the morning rehearsal, isn't it?"

Erik glanced over his shoulder at her, and Meg imagined that one sparse eyebrow was raised under the stoic mask. "Of course."

Meg's forehead remained creased in its frown as she asked too sharply, "How did you do that?"

She caught the faintest note of pride in Erik's voice as he said with an indifferent shrug, "There is a switch in my bedroom that opens a series of trapdoors through all of the basement levels that can carry the sounds of the stage directly into my living room." He paused, glancing at Meg's frown, and added, "That's what caused me to hear the leak that drew you out of bed three and a half weeks ago, the night we met."

Meg's scowl deepened. Had it really only been less than a month, since _Hannibal_ had begun and they had met face-to-terrifying-face upon that darkened stage? The run of the opera had been a blur of work and worry, and her eight days in the _little house on the lake_ seemed to mesh together without light to mark the passing of time. She coughed, remembering, and demanded, "Why did you have to frighten me so much then? What had I ever done to you? Is that just how you have your fun, frightening helpless chorus girls in the dead of night?"

"Hardly helpless, I would say," Erik said, his voice growing louder and stronger as he turned to face her fully. "I've seen you challenge our worthless excuse for a diva, O-Champion-of-the-Children. You're not afraid to stand up against me or anyone else in my Opera House."

"That's not true!" Meg nearly shouted at him. "I'm terrified to stand up to people!" Her stomach twisted as she said it, but she plowed ahead nonetheless. "But why can't you leave me alone? Why do you have to pay attention to what I do? Why can't you just go back to haunting Christine without my help and just let me go home?

Erik's mouth was already open to tell her she should be grateful to him for saving her life, and be glad to help him win his Angel, but he remembered, from a lifetime ago, how incredibly frustrating it was to have people treat you like you couldn't understand things just because you were young. He decided that, as he had enlisted her help in his quest for Christine, that he did owe her some portion of the truth.

"I watch over you because your mother asks me to." He saw the disbelief on Meg's face that said she thought he was lying to her. "When you first moved here, Antoinette Giry asked me to look over and help you. I admit, it was my idea; I knew how protective she was of you and promised that if she served and assisted me, I would make you an Empress. I believe she has clung to that promise for ten years now."

Meg's jaw was clenched tight in fury. "You mean that you have _manipulated_ her for ten years, and now you're just replacing her with me," she said through gritted teeth. She stood abruptly, her hands clenching into fists despite the soft flute melody that now drifted through the air. "Well, I won't be your puppet, monsieur. You can't make promises or threats to me that will make me your slave. It doesn't work that way, and you can just find yourself another girl to manipulate, you monster!"

She whirled and began to stalk away, but Erik was in front of her as suddenly as if he had stepped out of a shadow. He did not tower over her as he did over Christine because Meg was so tall, but the darkness of his figure and the menace in his bewitching voice allowed him to loom nonetheless.

"Do your promises mean so little to you, little Megara?" he hissed, his voice seeping into Meg's ears and burning her mind like acid. She clutched her head in a physical pain, but glared up at him through a grimace.

"That's when I thought you deserved a chance, but now—" she cut off. Was she actually willing to say that he didn't deserve a chance anymore?

No, she supposed not. She gave a sigh and lowered her hand. Whatever had happened over the past then years, she had meant it when she said Erik deserved a chance to be happy. And, if she was seen as a helper rather than another pawn on the chessboard, then maybe she could swing the events so that less people ended up played with or hurt.

Meg turned to stare straight into Erik's eyes, her icy blue ones catching his sunken golden ones in an escapable grip.

"Very well," she said, her voice soft but iron-firm. "You're right. I did promise. I will help you." She paused, then smiled. "Now, weren't you making breakfast?"


	37. Failed Food and Freedom

_I'm sorry. _

**Chapter 32**

**Failed Food and Freedom**

From that moment on, Meg decided to make herself at home in Erik's lair. She knew that she wouldn't be allowed to stay until she was no longer ill, and under Erik's watchful eye she was getting better every day. Her cough was nearly gone, and she got lightheaded less often upon standing. If she wanted to have enough of a foothold in Erik's world to have an influence on his plans, then she'd better get to work on getting him used to her. To this end, after breakfast she continued going through the material for _Il Muto_ for as long as the sounds of rehearsal drifted through the trapdoors and into the _dining room on the lake_. She was following along with the chorus's lines, jotting step directions that she could hear her mother shouting in the margins beside the notes, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of how her mother must miss her, if she wondered where she was, or if she suspected. At first, she corrected herself; she had always _known_ that her mother did not believe in the Phantom. But now she knew that that had all been an act to protect Meg, and that she had always known of – _known_ the Phantom, spoken with him, bargained with him. However, when Erik passed by the sofa and saw her notations, he hesitated, then spoke. He seemed reluctant to initiate a conversation after her pre-breakfast outburst.

"Those aren't your lines," he began, affecting indifference.

"What?" Meg looked up from her writing, blinking as she focused on something that wasn't two inches from her nose.

"You are not part of the chorus line in those scenes."

"What do you mean? Of course I … unless I didn't make the line. Why would you have brought me the script if I hadn't made it into the play?"

"In this scene, as in the rest of the play, your lines are headed as 'Maid'."

Meg blinked at him. "You mean… I got the part? But… I fell. I ruined my audition!"

Erik turned and began to head down the dark hallway to his room. Over his shoulder, he said softly, "I think you impressed a lot of people with your audition, Mademoiselle, regardless of how you ended it. I believe your illness has been taken into account."

Meg set the score aside and stood, staring suspiciously after Erik's retreating form. "Did you have anything to do with that?" She paused, then added, "Erik?"

Erik paused in the hall, standing very straight in the shadows. His head turned slightly, as if he were going to address her, but then he changed his mind and pressed the hidden latch that opened the door to his bedroom. He entered it without another word, leaving Meg standing alone in the dim living room. She remained there, contemplating how she would manage to insert herself into this enigmatic man's plannings, until Ayesha wandered up to her and began rubbing up against her dark skirts. Meg picked up the purring white creature, and carried her down the hallway and into the library. Time to continue making herself at home…

Meg set Ayesha down in the lone armchair by the lamp in the library and began browsing the shelves for an interesting read. She finally decided on ­a history of Italian architecture because it actually had illustrated examples of the specific terms it used and settled back down into the armchair, Ayesha curling up into her lap. She read until she the dim light and the soft feel of the cat's fur made her too sleepy to continue. Her mind began to wander, and thoughts of how worried her mother must be attempted to overwhelm her. As she felt her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, she tried to consider the logistics of her promise to Erik – specifically, how could she help him without becoming just another pawn on his chessboard. She had no doubt that helping him was the right thing t do – even if she didn't care much for being a matchmaker, Erik's care in helping her recover told her that he at least deserved to compete for Christine's affection as much as any other man. And, on the chance that she managed to retain some autonomy as she journeyed through the web she was now so tangled in, she might be able to prevent Erik's dangerous, powerful moods from harming anyone; Christine, Raoul, or even himself.

Raoul – yes, that would be another problem. He wouldn't be leaving with the Royal Navy for the North Pole until the end of winter, which put him in considerable danger for the next few months if Christine were to entertain his affections. She'd have to see if there were a way to disengage his interest from his childhood friend, or to cause Christine to reject his advances in favor of Erik. Meg had a feeling that it would be dangerous at this point to be a part of the losing side in any counter in which Erik was involved.

Well, she'd never be able to influence anything if she didn't get Erik to rely on her before she returned to the surface world. She already felt hugely removed from the sunlit world of the Opera Populaire, but she knew Erik would never see her as belonging to his world. Maybe proving herself comfortable wouldn't be enough to make her seem anything more than a tool.

Rousing herself by vigorously knuckling her eyes, she shook her head and reluctantly left the library. She migrated back to the dark living room, Ayesha padding close at her heels. What could she do to appear useful? The room was already nearly spotless, Meg having had many days to clean and with neither she nor Erik being particularly messy people. She could straighten up the Louis-Philippe room, as Erik would probably want that room extremely tidy for Christine's next foray into his underworld…whenever that was. But Meg wasn't going to put the final touches on that room until her coughing and lightheadedness went away, and Erik told her she could return to her normal life.

What else was there? She knew that though Erik was a gourmet chef from the simplistic yet sumptuous meals he had prepared for the pair of them, he rarely ate otherwise. However, she couldn't think of anything else to do. She was desperate to do something – anything – productive, not having Erik's hobbies of music, art, and manipulative scheming to occupy herself with.

An hour later, Meg was frantically trying to fan smoke out of the kitchen, through the living room, and out into the lake cavern. Between breathing through a wet towel and using it to fan the smoke, Meg desperately tried to see if there were any salvageable remnants of the chicken she had tried to cook. There weren't. On her umpteenth time of returning to the kitchen after chasing a cloud out of the door, she was startled by Erik's thin, black-clad form poking despondently at the blackened meat in the smoky cloud. He looked up as she enered, and had o suppress a sad smile. Meg's apron (his apron, technically) was smeared with soot and spices, and the dishcloth she was using was faring no better. She looked flustered and embarrassed, with her hair frizzing out and her sleeves rolled up past her elbows.

Erik shook his head in sad amusement. This girl was so much inconvenience. Christine, the Angel that she was, was never nearly this much trouble! Sighing, he filled a glass of water from the kitchen tap and offered it to his harried-looking houseguest. She accepted it gratefully, not flinching as her hand accidentally brushed his skeletal fingers, though it was an effort to keep here nose from wrinkling as she drank; even through the stench of the burned meal, Erik's grip had still left a lingering stench of death on the glass that cut through all other smells. However, she did her best to ignore it, and returned the empty glass to Erik with a thankful smile.

Surveying the smoky, charred wreckage of what used to be dinner, Meg and Erik both let out a sigh. They looked at each other, surprised, then Erik spoke first,

"Go and study your music, mademoiselle," he said coldly. "You are expected to perform adequately before rehearsals must stop in preparation for the Masquerade Ball in a few weeks' time, and _I_ expect you to spend a considerable amount of your time once you return on things other than performing."

Catching his meaning, Meg added sarcastically, "Still performing, just not for the opera…" Not sensing a smile from Erik, she quickly wiped her own off her face and removed her now-filthy apron. She silently handed the apron and dishcloth to Erik and left the room to retrieve her rehearsal notes. She was already tired of going over the music, particularly because there would be no rehearsal going on above that she could listen to at this hour, and also because she had no place secluded to practice out of Erik's earshot. It was practically her goal in life at this point to never have her voice singled out (a difficult task when you were horrible at staying in key), and there was no way she'd lower herself further in Erik's eyes by singing in her presence any more than was absolutely necessary.

Carrying her thick folder of music tight against her chest, Meg walked down the hallway towards the library. At least this way there could be several walls dividing her from Erik in the kitchen. She trailed one hand lightly along the wall opposite the library door as she walked, not wanting to accidentally trip the hidden switch to Erik's room by touching that wall. She didn't want to mess anything else up today.

Unfortunately, that plan changed as she couldn't help noticing the strange feel of the apparently stone wall beneath her hand; most importantly, that it didn't feel like stone. It felt lighter, less sturdy – like a plaster imitation of stone. Then she noticed that at one point in the wall, the stone panels seemed to line up into an oddly straight line for the rough design of that particular wall. In fact, it was odd that that single wall was so rough in design; the rest of the house, though simple, had an elegant design that looked as though it had been designed and built by a master architect. (The longer Meg stayed in the _little house on the lake_, the more the simplicity of the house revealed itself as a precise design of aesthetic elegance.) Why was this one wall designed so roughly, and out of an unnatural material?

Meg set her folder silently on the ground and ran her fingers lightly along the mysterious vertical groove that divided the rough stones of the wall. With a start, she felt the wall give slightly under her hands. She dropped her hands quickly to her sides, looking guiltily around her. This was obviously something she was not meant to discover. She stood there for several moments, staring at that crack in the wall, trying to decide which would keep her up more at night: her conscience if she looked, or her curiosity if she didn't. In an impulsive decision, she threw caution to the winds, placed her hands on either side of the crack, and leaned into the wall.

With only the barest whisper as the wall slid across a dusty floor, the sections of the wall swung inwards on invisible hinges and opened into a pitch-black room. Meg stepped tentatively inside to allow her eyes to adjust to the light. Slowly, she seemed to be able to make out a large – enormous, really, -- mass piled in one corner, though she couldn't tell what it was. There was also another wall at the far end of the room, but this one seemed to shimmer slightly in the faint light refracting in from the hallway. Meg wanted to take another step in to see which of these mysterious objects she could identify, but she was rooted to the spot by a strange sense of darkness and evil that was pressing in on her. There was something very wrong with this room, and she suddenly decided that she had no desire to learn its dark purpose.

Her heart beginning to pound wildly, Meg spun to run from the room, and crashed into something very solid and unyielding. For one brief moment, she thought the wall had closed behind her, but this was stronger than the ersatz wall. Her terror only increased as what she had collided with suddenly enveloped her, seizing her by her upper arms and shaking her. Her heartbeat growing even more erratic, Meg stared up terrified into Erik's mask. This was even worse than when he had cornered her in his passageways, worse than when she had seen his face. His eyes blazed red in the darkness, glowing like iridescent pools of blood, and through his iron grip on her arms Meg could tell that he was shaking with rage. Meg was shaking too, but with fear. She could think of nothing but her almost certain and immediate death as she tried to look away from Erik's burning, furious eyes.

The silence stretched for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Erik spoke, his voice clenched with rage.

"I believe it is time that you left my home."


	38. Surfacing and A Surprise

Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

**Surfacing and A Surprise **

As Meg was straightening up the Louis-Philippe room even an hour later, she couldn't make her hands stop trembling. She hardly dared to even think about the room she had found, and how close to death she had been in it. She couldn't forget that it would only have taken one quick act of violence, and her body could have been hidden down here forever. Maybe it was safest that Erik was forcing her to leave immediately.

She just hoped she hadn't messed up her own plans too much. There was one bright side, though – even though she had probably taken a huge step backwards in the trust department by snooping again, the fact that Erik had not hit her, shaken her, yelled at her, or even threatened her was quite encouraging. If he wasn't as angry this time, or was at least able to control himself enough not to kill her, perhaps it meant he was at least a little more comfortable with the thought of her being around.

Once the room had been straightened, the bathroom cleaned, and the bed made, Meg took one last look around the room and sighed. It was really such a beautiful room – a beautiful house, really – that she was very reluctant to return to the surface. Even if she had been sick while down here, Meg felt better after the period of rest and wasn't very excited to return to the daily grind of endless rehearsals that was the life of a ballet rat.

A quiet but firm knock on the door told her that Erik thought it was time for her to leave. Holding the nightgown she had been wearing when brought down here, Meg reluctantly opened the large oak door to face her host.

"Do you mind if I borrow this dress?" she asked, not wanting to have to return in her nightshift unless absolutely necessary.

Erik considered the question for a minute. He didn't honestly mind lending the dress; he could get it back from her room at any time. The only question was if Christine would recognize it as one he had given her. He decided that she wouldn't; he had stocked the wardrobe with several new dresses and Christine had not worn them all. And as much as he adored her, he had to admit that sometimes observation was not her strong suit.

"You may wear it for today," he conceded, and then turned from Meg to lead her from his house. Meg was taken aback at the suddenness with which he wanted her to leave, but she supposed that lengthy goodbyes with unwanted houseguests or pawns in his games were not high on Erik's list of priorities. So, clutching her music folder and nightdress to her chest, she quietly followed Erik out of his _little house on the lake_ to where his midnight-black gondola rested on the gravelly shores of the underground waters. At Erik's motion, Meg stepped into the small boat, easily stepping along the center line so that she did not rock the craft. She sat in the curving, gilded prow as Erik stepped softly in behind her and raised his ferrying pole.

A short while later, Erik was leading Meg through the twisting series of passages and trapdoors in the Opera's sublevels. This was the first time Meg had been conscious for the trip, and she spent the whole passage trying to memorize their progress while seeming like she was absorbed in her thoughts. She wasn't sure how well it would work, but she wanted to be able to get a hold of Erik in case she needed to. After what she guessed was about twenty minutes of walking, Erik came to a halt in a corridor where thick beams of light cut through the gloom. They stopped in one of the light patches, and, as Meg's eyes slowly adjusted after the long trip through the darkness, she recognized her own bedroom. She was obviously looking from the point of view of the full-length mirror. Well, at least this settled how Erik had been able to sneak into her room, to threaten her or leave her thorny flowers. She was almost disappointed. Knowing took some of the magic out of Erik's mystery.

Erik reached out with one bony, gloved hand, and though Meg couldn't see precisely what he touched, the mirror pane gave a soft hiss and slid a fraction of an inch into one side of its thick oak frame. Erik moved to open the mirror passage fully, but Meg placed a hand lightly on the two-way glass to stop him.

"Could we go to my mother's room first?" she asked softly. "I want her to see me first."

After a brief moment of consideration, Erik's softly glowing mask inclined in a nod. He had developed a fondness for Antoinette Giry, after accidentally hearing what she had done to protect her daughter during Meg's fevered nightmares. He placed his palm flat on the glass and slid the mirror until it locked back into its frame with a soft _click_.

Without bothering to indicate for Meg to follow him, Erik headed back down the barely lit hallway the way they had come. Now Meg could follow where these hidden corridors lay, since she was so familiar with the route from her own room to her mother's.

After walking through the darkness for a few more minutes, they came to a small side hall with another faint shaft of light cutting the shadows. They approached the beam of light, and Meg could see her mother's room beyond.

Antoinette Giry sat on her small makeup stool, brushing her hair, a tired, empty look in her eyes. Her face looked paler and more heavily lined than Meg had last seen it, and she looked thinner as well. Meg was filled with sorrow and guilt, but as Erik reached out to open the mirror, she again reached out to stop him.

She turned to face him and looked him square in his softly glowing eyes. Very solemnly, she said, "Thank you. For everything."

Erik considered her for several long seconds. Finally he answered, "I'll see you around," and without another word he depressed the button that opened the mirror.

At the sound of a faint rushing of air, Antoinette Giry was pulled out of her depressing thoughts, her eyes refocusing onto the mirror in front of her. In the reflection of her bedroom, in front of her mirror, stood her dear lost Megara! Could this be real?

"Bonjour, Maman," said the apparition, in a soft voice.

At the sound, Madame Giry spun to face the room. It was her daughter, returned to her at last! She leapt up, and the two women embraced tearfully.

After several minutes, when emotions had subsided, Meg uncertainly took a deep breath. She wasn't sure how to explain where she'd been for the past eight days. She also wasn't sure how much Erik would want her to tell. But before she could begin, her mother stepped back, smoothed her skirts, and picked up her hairbrush.

"Well, rehearsals have already begun for _Il Muto_, but I managed to convince them to not give away your role. You won the part of the Maid, you know?" Meg nodded, still slightly confused at her mother's attitude, and Antoinette continued. "Anyway, rehearsals for the Masquerade Ball will begin next week, since we have to get the dance routine ready for New Years's. But first, we have another _Il Muto_ rehearsal late tonight, and I should get you caught up on a few of the steps and where you've been for the past week. We can't expect Monsieur DuGaulle to assign someone a named role and then accept that person simply not showing up for rehearsal without some sort of explanation."

Meg nodded knowingly. It would be just like they had done for Christine – covered for her time with Erik. A small wave of annoyance crossed her mind. What made Erik think that he could just kidnap whomever he chose, and she and her mother would cover for him?

_Probably the fact that we do_, Meg thought resignedly, and returned her attention to her mother.

"Since no one asked for more details when we said Christine was with a friend in the city, I haven't given any more details than that. So you can make up details as you need to – just make sure you're consistent." As she spoke, Mme Giry twisted her hair up into a tight bun, and once she was finished she stood briskly. "Now, for the routines. How much to you know?"

It appeared that her mother was not going to ask where she had actually been. Meg was grateful, but she suspected that the gesture was actually born out of some misguided reverence of the mystical Opera Ghost. In any case, Antoinette did not comment when Meg told her that she had already practiced the music but only had heard the associated dance steps.

Madame Giry nodded, and for the next hour or so, the two women ran through the series of moves in the Maid and Chorus scenes that had already been covered during rehearsals. It wasn't enough to truly learn them by any means, but it would be enough to keep Meg from being incredibly behind once rehearsal started. Most important to go over were Meg's scenes as the Maid, when her movement was a key facet of the story. Also, those were the scenes involving the show's principles, and Meg couldn't afford to cause a redo in a scene with the truly important performers, especially after being absent for so many rehearsals.

From somewhere within the corridors of the Opera House, a clock chimed the supper hour as Meg was adding a final scribbled dance note to one of the pages in Erik's thick leatherbound notebook. Reluctantly, she set aside her mother's quill and sighed.

"I guess that's my cue," she said. "I guess I should go make my excuses." After a quick glance in the mirror to affirm that she did still look like she was recovering from an illness (without any makeup, she did), Meg kissed her mother on both cheeks, hugged her again, then headed off alone towards the Opera Populaire's dining room.

Overall, Meg's reappearance didn't go as badly as she thought it would. True, when she entered, the high-ceilinged room went strangely quiet, and the men and women seated on benches beside the long tables all turned their heads in her direction, and, yeah, when she flushed with embarrassment she did become a little lightheaded, but she was able to find her friends fairly quickly. Christine, Marie, and Julie sat on either side of the table to the far right of the hall, their expressions a mixture of relief and concern as Meg walked quickly over to join them. While Christine just eyed her strangely, Julie and Marie began pouring questions and exclamations of joy and snippets of Opera gossip so quickly that their identical voices tumbled over one another and meshed into one high-pitched stream of nonsense. Slowly, Meg began to smile. After what seemed like so long in Erik's dark world, she'd forgotten how much she missed her silly friends.

Finally, Christine interrupted the twins' stream of chatter. "I'm sure Meg needs to build her strength back up, so could one of you go get her some dinner?"

Julie leapt up with a "Mais, oui! Be right back!" and rushed off to where the kitchen staff had set platters and bowls of food on a long oak table.

Now that the barrage of talk had ceased, Meg quickly and quietly explained to Christine and Marie that she had been in the city, with a friend of her mother's so that she could recover in peace without the risk of contaminating anyone. Marie accepted the story without the need of supporting details, but Christine's large doe eyes narrowed. It suddenly occurred to Meg that if Erik had been too preoccupied with her to visit Christine, then the sudden silence would likely seem suspicious.

When Julie returned bearing a tray with a bowl of chicken soup and a few slices of bread, Marie quickly repeated Meg's explanation. As Julie nodded in understanding, Meg smiled again. Sometimes it was good to have friends who would believe you without question.

After dinner, the twins hurried in front of Meg to clear a path to rehearsal through the questioning crowd, while Christine hung back with a suspicious look on her face. She grabbed Meg's arm a little too tightly, and Meg thought she could see a slightly wild look in those big brown eyes.

"Where were you, really?" Christine demanded, her whisper harsh. "That was the same story you gave when I was gone, and—"

Meg cut her off. "How do you think we were able to come up with the story when you went missing?" she answered in her own hiss. "Because Maman has a friend from church that lives in the city, and she's offered to let someone stay with her in the past." She carefully removed Christine's iron grip from her arm. "Because we knew it was a possibility, we were able to use it as an excuse when you were gone. And now that I was actually sick, we were able to use the offer for real."

Christine visibly relaxed as Meg spoke. The wild light faded from her eyes, replaced by her normal kind, soft glow. She smiled. "Well, I'm sorry that you had to take your mother's friend up on her offer for real, but I am glad that you're back now." She gave Meg a swift hug, and then the two girls followed in Marie and Julie's wake towards the costume shoppe.

Rehearsal went much better than Meg had anticipated. After a temporary costume alteration to compensate for her recent weight loss from her illness, Meg joined the other chorus girls in a run-through of the Forest Dance. It was a scene near the end of the first act, largely intended to represent the change of seasons and the blooming love of the Countess and her new lover. It was one of the scenes that Meg had been able to listen to during her stay in Erik's home, so she was able to follow along fairly well, and the biggest problem was that none of the props for the scene were finished. After a brief run of the dance, a call went out to assemble the cast for the opening scene. This would be the scene that always got the most rehearsal time, as everyone knew that it was the most important scene of the play. After all, sometimes the opening scene was the only one that the majority of the audience would be awake for!

This was one moment that Meg had been dreading. As soon as Carlotta Guidichelli was called in to the auditorium, Meg knew that she would have a barrage of snide things to say about her absence.

Unfortunately, she was correct. Carlotta's presence in the auditorium was announced by a strident "Well, well, well." All heads turned watch the diva striding across the stage, a flurry of pink fur and feathers. "I see that little miss slug-a-bed has finally decided to join us." She turned to Piangi, who was huffing and puffing along slightly behind her. "What was it that was so special about this skinny rat that made us hold her spot for her, while the truly talented performers were forced to attend these dreary and unnecessary rehearsals?" Piangi gave a wheezy smile and nodded. Carlotta didn't seem to notice and continued. "Now we shall have to start all over, it seems."

Meg didn't see what all of the fuss was about. They hadn't even been rehearsing for a full week yet. She was about to say so, when a soft cough from behind interrupted both her and Carlotta's next words.

"My daughter's return is not the only change that seems in store for this cast today," came her mother's voice with barely suppressed anger.

"Ahem, yes," Monsieur Giles Andre added, stepping forward to join the ballet mistress. "It seems there have been some… casting changes."

A puzzled silence swept over the stage. Carlotta put her pink-gloved hands on her hips and shifted her weight indignantly, the clear picture of someone who was fixing to unleash a lot of anger on someone.

Monsieur Firmin suddenly broke in in a loud voice, "Madame Guidichelli, you have been recast to the role of the Pageboy. Mademoiselle Daae, you have been recast as the Countess."

There was absolute quiet on the stage. The two new managers hurriedly scurried off the stage, leaving Antoinette Giry standing alone in front of a stunned and silent cast.


	39. Ballet and Bullets

Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

**Ballet and Bullets **

It didn't take long for the stunned silence to erupt into a cacophony of noise. The din began with an indignant shriek from Carlotta, and then fountained into laughter from the entirety of the chorus line. Prima ballerina la Sorelli was loudest in her laughter. She seemed particularly delighted that the singing diva had been unseated while she remained the best dancer in the cast.

After her initial moment of shock, Carlotta's dark beady eyes locked on Christine, standing among the crowd of previously stretching ballet dancers.

"You!" she shrieked, flying towards the slim dancer in a cloud of pink fury. Several of the male dancers stepped into her path, blocking her attack. Christine looked withdrawn, her eyes wide and her face somber. As the men led her away, Carlotta's screeching insults carried easily through the auditorium and back to the stage. "You little whore! You told your lover the Viscount to do this to me! How dare you think to unseat me, to replace me, you little impertinent wretch? I will ruin you, I promise! I will—"

Finally the auditorium doors closed behind Carlotta and her escorts, and her complaints were silenced. All eyes turned onto Christine, who stared blankly back at the crowd. Meg made a small motion so that Christine would look at her, and then gestured for her to shrug and smile. Christine took the prompt and did so, smiling sheepishly in an "it wasn't my idea" sort of way.

The crowd then turned their attention to Madame Giry, who met their questioning gazes with her own severe, no-nonsense look.

"Well, what are you just standing around for? You've received your assignments, now get back to rehearsal."

"What did Monsieur DuGaulle have to say about this?" asked Ubaldo Piangi, clearly upset on Carlotta's behalf.

Mme Giry gave him an icy look, very like the ones that Meg could give. "It was not his decision to make," she said simply, and everyone in the crowd got an uneasy feeling. They all knew what that meant.

Under Madame Giry's watchful glare, the dancers set in their places for the opening scene. Though they were now missing one of the roles, Julie was able to stand in well enough for the scene to be run.

Luckily, the concern over the casting change had taken all of the attention off of Meg and her return to rehearsals. She wondered if Erik had timed his demands this way on purpose. In any case, the rehearsal went well. Christine had obviously been practicing the Countess's part in anticipation of the role change, and Meg's practice proved sufficient for the first run-through.

In fact, the rehearsals continued to run well for the next week. Rehearsals for _Il Muto_ were terribly rushed; only barely over a month of practice total was scheduled before the opening performance because of the new managers' New Year's Masquerade Ball. The entire run of _Il Muto_ had to be performed before the Ball, and so rehearsals were scheduled for at least eight hours a day every weekday.

It was the end of the second week of rehearsals when the rumors started.

It was easy to tell who had started the tales of scandal in the Opera House. First came the rumor that the Viscount de Chagny had paid off the managers to demand a casting change. When this was met with only a mild response, the story became that the Viscount had threatened to withdraw his patronage and that of his brother if Christine were not given a starring role. There was even a sub-rumor that if la Sorelli had not been sleeping with the Count de Chagny, she too would have been replaced by one of the Viscount's favorites, and that perhaps the entire opera would have turned into "the Christine Daae show." Any time Meg heard someone sharing these or any of Carlotta's ridiculous other stories, she made a point to interrupt with a countering opinion – that the diva had passed her prime and was being replaced by a better, newer star.

Of course, the trouble was that the true cause of the casting change wasn't something that could be shared with the throngs of reporters that flocked to the Opera Populaire as the rumors were "leaked" to their offices. No one outside the Opera would accept that a mysterious demand from a phantom could cause such upset to the theatre's organization. It was also impossible to blame the casting change on an illness as was the usual procedure – la Carlotta was making it publicly obvious that she was furious at being replaced. Therefore, every journalist seeking a story was met with an evasive and completely uninformative reply about new talent, changing time, or rehearsal schedules. Most of the actors who had to come to the Populaire for rehearsals each day began staying overnight at the Opera House for several days at a time to avoid the crowds of curious reporters.

Even though Meg was now essentially confined to the Opera House, it still felt like freedom after her stay in Erik's _little house on the lake_. After missing the first several rehearsals, Meg spent the majority of her time thinking about the opera even while she was not in rehearsal. Christine and the twins knew that although Meg was a very bright girl, her inability to learn music simply from reading the sheet music made her take a long time with her private rehearsals. Thus, they made sure to give her plenty of time alone to work through the music, though they did try to make sure that she didn't work too hard after "being ill." Meg also suspected that the reason Christine was not spending more time with her was so that she could spend her little free time with her childhood sweetheart the Viscount. She had noticed his carriage outside the Populaire for several days and frequently heard Christine's innocent laughter echoing through the many levels of the Opera House.

That was why Meg found herself alone in her room yet again, avoiding continued rehearsal by reading an old, leather-bound book by the soft glow of a candle. She was bored, bored, bored. She hadn't returned from Erik's house only to be sucked into the surprisingly dull and endless repetitions of rehearsal. The problem was that the preparation time for _Il Muto_ was so rushed that no one wanted to practice on their own outside of the hours that they all practiced together each day, so the simple mistakes that people normally fixed on their own had to be dealt with in group rehearsal. It made for some tedious practices, and it would only get worse when rehearsals for the Masquerade Ball dance began shortly.

Meg sighed and lay her book down. It wasn't really keeping her entertained. She stood and stretched. Her life for the past week seemed boring in comparison to her time in Erik's home. Even though he had kept to himself most of the time she was there, at least his mysterious presence and curious home provided the occasional thrill. Admittedly, her discovery of that large dark room had been a little too frightening. She had puzzled over the strange room for several nights, but the sense of menace in her mind prevented her from dwelling on the dark shapes or the strangely reflecting walls for very long.

Still, the quiet air and the hours of boredom were driving her to do something interesting. She had been reluctant to see if she could open the mirror in her room. Surely, since Erik knew she had seen him open a mirror, he would have locked it somehow if he didn't want her to try to enter his passages. So Meg decided to give it a try. At least it would give her something to do.

It didn't take long for Meg to find the hidden switch on the edge of the mirror's frame. In fact, she guessed that anyone could have found it if they had bothered to look. She stepped through the frame and slid the mirror shut behind her. She walked away from Christine's room, doing her best to remember the twists and turns that led down many levels to Erik's lake. And though it took several backtrackings, she slowly felt the air become cooler and damper as she puzzled out the route down.

She was nearly to the shore of the lake when loud, shuffling footfalls from behind her made her duck into a side passage and hide. She had never heard Erik be so noisy in the time she was with him, so who else could be down here in his forbidden domain? As the black-clad figure staggered past her hiding spot, however, she saw the glint of a porcelain mask that said that the cloaked man was indeed The Phantom. He was hunched over, walking irregularly and supporting himself with one hand against the opposite wall of the corridor. He appeared to be badly hurt!

"Erik, what's wrong?" Meg said in concern, stepping from the shadows with one hand raised to face level. As she had expected, a sinewy rope of catgut flew out from Erik's injured form, but the throw was weak and it merely hit Meg's raised arm weakly. She let the Punjab lasso fall to the ground and ran to Erik's side. No matter how angry he had been at their last parting, that had been three weeks ago and he was obviously in need of help.

Erik was badly shaken by the sudden appearance of the Giry girl so close to his home. He tried to shoo her away as she rushed to support him, but every movement sent fiery pain through his back. She hooked an arm under his shoulders and around his back, and then gasped as something wet and warm began to soak through the sleeve of her dress. Meg sniffed deeply. Past the cloying stench of death that always seemed to follow Erik, she smelled something sharp and metallic that was unmistakably blood. Judging by what was staining her dress, the wound was serious.

"Get away," Erik snarled, but his voice was strained in pain.

"Later," Meg said, beginning to carry Erik toward where she was sure the shore of his lake lay. Soon, they reached his black gondola, and Meg helped Erik into it. He reluctantly sat in the prow, after Meg insisted that he was in no condition to ferry them across with his pole.

"You will not get past the Siren," Erik muttered darkly, his voice growing weaker.

Meg didn't know what that meant, but she firmly replied that she would as long as he was in the boat too, and she began to pole the small boat swiftly away from the gravel shore. Soon they arrived on the small island at the lake's center. Meg helped Erik out of the gondola and supported him into the little house.

"The couch," Erik said through gritted teeth. He didn't want to waste any time in the event that Meg went into shock at the sight of his coffin.

Together they staggered over to the couch, and Meg did her best to lower Erik face-down onto the cushions. Ayesha bounded over curiously and tried to leap up on Erik, but Meg caught her mid-flight and set her firmly back on the ground.

"There's a surgeon's bag in the leftmost bottom cabinet in the kitchen," Erik said, his voice muffled since his mask was pressing into the cushions.

Meg hurried to the cupboard and fetched the large black bag. She rushed back and dropped to the floor beside the couch, beginning to hurriedly pull instruments and vials from the bag.

"Can I take your jacket off?" Meg asked, already beginning to pull at Erik's sleeve.

"No!" Erik said firmly, his voice reverberating around the small room. He was determined that no woman would ever see so much of his bare skin. Not even his love for Christine was of that sort. "It's ruined anyway. Just cut it."

Meg winced, but quickly cut a large hole in the back of the suit with a small pair of scissors from the bag. This elegant and specifically tailored suit probably cost more than her mother made in six months as ballet mistress.

Soon, Meg had cleared large holes in Erik's jacket, vest, and dress shirt. A six-inch circle of Erik's back lay exposed, covered in fresh blood still oozing from the dark hole at its center.

"First the alcohol," Erik directed, his voice strained.

Meg picked up the large bottle of alcohol that had been in the surgeon's bag and poured a small amount onto the wound. Erik hissed in pain, and Meg used the removed circles of clothing to wipe up the excess.

"You know," Meg steeled herself and continued, "you can remove your mask if you like. It won't bother me." Erik made no response, so Meg let the point go and leaned in close to examine the wound.

"It's a bullet," Meg said, carefully keeping her voice expressionless.

"Yes," Erik said bitterly. "What kind of gentleman shoots someone when his back is turned?"

Meg thought she had an idea.

"Well, it missed your spine by about three inches, and I can still see it, so it must have been stopped by a rib."

Erik signed in relief. He had already suspected as much, but it was nice to hear that it wasn't as bad as it could have been. He couldn't yet tell if his rib was cracked, though.

"There are some long forceps in the bag," Erik said. He was a little uneasy about having to rely on this untrained girl, but he knew he wasn't nearly as frightened as she was. "Make sure you pour the alcohol over them first." He regretted that they hadn't enough time to boil water and properly sterilize the instrument.

Meg followed his instructions and, working to steady her hands, carefully stretched the thin pale skin of Erik's back to open the wound. She felt Erik tense, and she quickly let go. "Is there anything I can give you for the pain?"

Erik thought quickly. True, he had both opium and morphine in the house, but there was something about his habit that he felt needed to be kept to himself. Besides, he was no stranger to pain. As he hesitated to answer, Meg noticed the long pale whip scars on his back and traced one lightly with her finger.

"Just hurry up and get on with it," Erik barked, refusing to be pitied. Meg jumped and bent back over his back. She opened the wound with her left hand and, steadying her right against his back, reached in with the forceps and tried to get a grip on the bullet. Blood welled up under the pressure of her hands and the bullet became slippery and hard to see. In an effort to finish quickly, Meg dug after the bullet and in one tightly-gripped movement, pulled a large bullet out of Erik's back. Erik clenched his jaw, stubbornly refusing to yell out in the pain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Meg said frantically, snatching up the cut-out circles of clothing and pressing them hard against the bleeding wound. Erik only exhaled loudly. They sat there for several minutes, until Meg thought it was safe to remove her hands.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked quietly. "I could stack some books on your back to keep the pressure on," she said, attempting a small bit of humor.

Erik turned his masked face towards her, and she could see one golden eye that was very not amused.

"Will you at least let me bandage it?"

"I will take care of it," Erik said flatly.

"Fine." Meg stood and went into the kitchen to scrub Erik's blood from her hands. When she returned, Erik had not moved. "I suppose you don't want to tell me why you were shot?" she asked resignedly.

"Not any more than you want to tell me why you were wandering around my home."

Meg sighed. "Well, I guess I'll leave you alone then. I need to change out of this bloody dress anyway. You know where to find me if you need me." She wiped her hands dry on her skirts and made to quit the room.

"Wait."

Behind the command and the menace and the mystery, the misery and hopelessness in Erik's soft voice made Meg turn around.

"Tell me… how to win her back. What can I do to compare?"

Meg sighed again. She was right about how Erik had come by that bullet hole. She should have known that Erik would notice how much time Christine and Raoul had spent together lately. She guessed that Erik had followed Raoul, that there had some sort of confrontation, and that Erik had subsequently been wounded. She just wished she knew to what extent the two men had interacted. Hopefully, nothing face-to-face.

"Well, you're supposed to be the great composer, aren't you?" Meg shrugged. "I think you know what you could do for her. Why don't you write her an opera?"


	40. Opium and Opera

Chapter 35

_This may be the fastest I've ever updated. I have so much schoolwork to be doing right now that I definitely shouldn't have written any more, but I just had it all in my head and it was so easy to get it onto paper this time. So I hope everyone is pleasantly surprised by the speedy update. _

**Chapter 35**

**Opium and Opera**

After Meg left, Erik lay on the couch for several minutes. He tried to push himself up, but pain seared through his back and he fell back to the couch. Ayesha placed her front paws on the cushion in front of Erik's face and mewed curiously. He groaned.

"I'm getting too old for this," he grumbled, then slowly forced himself up. With great difficulty, he removed his ruined clothes. He signed. He would have to have Joseph, his errand-man, pick him up a new suit.

Though the pain was awful, Erik stood and slowly began shuffling down the hallway to his room. He had never felt so old! He flicked the hidden switch that opened the door to his bedroom and nearly fell in to the dark room. He could feel his wound bleeding again, the warm blood now running down his bare back and staining his trousers.

Erik found the object of his journey on top of his work desk – an ornate blown-glass hookah. From one of his desk drawers, he withdrew a small packet of poppy-seed cakes wrapped in brown paper. He removed one small cake and placed it in the hookah. Once everything was set up, he carried the apparatus over to a small table beside his mahogany coffin. He climbed facedown into the plush alternative to a bed. He would bandage the wound later. Right now he just wanted the pain to stop – the physical pain as well as the mental pain.

He suspected that the Giry girl had guessed the reason he had been shot. Thanks to the pain and the opium, he didn't really care. He didn't care if she knew he had noticed Raoul following his Angel around for the past few weeks. He didn't care if she guessed that he had followed that foppish boy back to his brother's estate. Or that the had climbed the large snowy tree beside the manor and watched the handsome viscount in his bedchambers. Damn that insolent boy. He even had a small oil portrait of Christine on his dressing table. He had become so angry at the opulence of this young man's life—the sheer _normalcy_ of everything about his damn life, the life that he could offer his Angel—that he had not been cautious enough about remaining hidden. He had rustled the branches and the boy had noticed. When they had locked gazes, though the boy could not fully see him, Erik had recognized the military strength in Raoul's eyes. Naturally, there was fear, but not nearly enough. The boy had shouted at him, and when Erik had descended the tree and begun to hurry away into the darkness, that miserable whelp had shot him in the back.

His mind and body growing numb from the sweet opium smoke, Erik dwelled on what Meg had said. Maybe composing an opera was the best way to convince Christine that he could offer her so much more than that young, handsome dandy. He would have to make it simple, though. Most of his composings these days went into his masterpiece, _Don Juan Triumphant!_, which was not meant to be heard by human ears. But he could compose something more beautiful than any man had ever written. That would convince her. His Angel could appreciate his music. Yes, he would write her an opera – the purest, most beautiful opera in the world, all for their love.

…

Meg slowly found her way back to the surface. When she allowed her eyes to adjust to the dark, she noticed that most of the corridors weren't completely black, and it was far easier to find her way.

As she walked, she contemplated how Erik had been injured—and what he would have done if she hadn't happened to be there. It wasn't exactly the kind of favor he could have turned to her mother or Christine for; he tried to downplay his mortality to them. And she wasn't aware that he had any other helpful acquaintances. Meg realized that, in general, this left Erik in a very poor spot. He was clearly not a young man, and he would increasingly need the availability of someone who could help him in his humanity. It was actually quite sad, she thought.

And she was fairly certain that the bullet in Erik's back had come from one of the Viscount de Chagny's pistols. Poor Erik. The younger man had been using his prior relationship with Christine to springboard himself into a close friendship. And he really was a nice guy. He couldn't be entirely faulted for his riches, his good looks, or his amiable personality. He and Erik were simply opposite sides of a coin, and they loved and were loved by Christine in entirely different ways. How could she be expected to choose?

Meg's musings were interrupted as she reached the Populaire's ground level by nauseatingly familiar strident tones. She began to hurry along the corridor, searching for the closest way out. She soon found one that opened into the shadows of at the back corner of the grand staircase. As she opened the hinged panel and stepped out, a flurry of pink followed by a larger mass in black was sweeping down the stairs.

"No, no, I have waited long enough for you to end this foolishness," announced the fluffy pink blob that was Carlotta Guidichelli. Meg realized that she was heading towards all of the reporters gathered around the entrance to the Populaire. "If you do not immediately return my starring role to me, I will tell every journalist in Paris that you two are superstitious fools who let the running of your opera house be dictated to you by a ghost."

The black mass behind her turned out to be the new managers Messrs. Firmin and Andre. They exchanged worried glances. So far, this was one aspect of their managing that had not been leaked to the press.

"Signora, we beg you to reconsider," pleaded M. Firmin. "Rehearsals are nearly over! We open within the week!"

"I don't care," stated Carlotta in her thick Italian accent. "I deserve to be the star."

The managers looked at each other helplessly. Meg remembered that Erik hadn't been around lately, making as many threats or demands as usual. She knew what the decision was before M. Andre affixed that phony smile to his face.

"Signora," we would be delighted if you would return to us as our star."

Carlotta paused in her sweep down the stairs. "Would you not rather have your precious little ingénue?"

Meg sighed. She should have known that Carlotta wouldn't be satisfied until the managers begged her back. She wasn't going to stay and listen to this nonsense. Walking quietly to avoid being dragged into the conversation, Meg sneaked back down the nearest hallway, amid a chorus of "Signora, no!" from the two hapless managers.

She headed straight to Christine's room. By pure luck, Christine was present and alone, not out with her friends or the viscount. Meg knocked and waited for Christine's excited "Come in!" before entering. She saw Christine's face fall slightly when she saw who it was.

"Expecting your lover?" Meg asked, attempting to joke in reference to the recent newspaper allegations, but failing.

Christine rolled her eyes and turned back to the mirror of her dressing table. "Are you feeling better?" she asked as she had each time she saw Meg over the past few weeks.

"Um, well, there's something I have to tell you."

Christine turned, looking worried. "What?"

"Carlotta's back." Christine sighed. "And the managers have already given her back the role of the Countess."

Christine's head snapped up in surprise. Meg saw her glance quickly towards her full-length mirror, then towards the door. A wave of annoyance swept over Meg. Did she expect her precious Angel of Music to recover her starring role for her? Did she expect the viscount to?

"What about Julie?" Christine asked finally. Their friend Julie Simmón had taken on the role of the Pageboy after the recasting.

"I don't know," Meg said. "My guess is that since Julie's been in the Pageboy/Chorus scenes and at least knows the general movements, she might get switched to Chorus. And since all you know is the Countess/Pageboy scenes, you'll probably get moved back to Pageboy."

Christine was silent as she considered. Meg knew that her friend was essentially a good and unassuming person. But working for several weeks on a lead role and then having it taken away from you days before the opening performance would try anyone's patience. In the end, Christine's natural goodness won out, and she smiled wanly.

"Well, I suppose that makes the most sense for all involved. If that is what happens, though, I hope Julie isn't mad at me."

"No matter what happens, none of it would be your fault," Meg reassured her. After several minutes of silence, she said briskly, "Come on, then. I'm sure the others would want to hear this as soon as possible."

The two girls climbed the several flights of stairs up to the dormitories where all of the other chorus girls, who were not permanent residents of the Opera Populaire, stayed during the plays. They arrived as the same time as Madame Giry, who bore a face like a thundercloud. The older woman noticed the grumpy looks that the two girls bore and asked "I assume you have already heard the news."

"Yes, Maman," Meg replied sadly, "but we were just coming up to tell the other girls. I assume that Carlotta has stopped being convinced by the managers, then?"

Madame Giry nodded darkly, and pushed open the door to the girls' dormitory. Small cubicles each containing a cot, a small chest of drawers, and a dressing table lined the long room, and a row of blazing furnaces kept the room heated through the freezing Paris winters.

Madame Giry thumped her cane against the floor three times, and cots creaked as all of the girls present exited their small rooms obediently. With poorly concealed annoyance, the ballet mistress relayed the news of la Carlotta's return and the managers' and director's new casting decisions. It was as Meg had guessed. The chorus girls grumbled angrily and the diva's audacity. Several came forward to comfort Christine while others crowded around Julie to check that she was okay with the new role. Julie, always a shy girl, waved off her sympathetic peers, reassured them all that she was happier to be back with the chorus group in any case.

Meg stayed near her mother throughout this procedure. She wondered if Mme Giry was thinking about how the Phantom would react to the news that his orders had been disobeyed. After several minutes, the ballet mistress called the girls to order, informing them that in light of this second recasting, rehearsals must resume immediately. Also, all rehearsals for the Masquerade Ball routine, which had only just begun, were hereby suspended until the start of _Il Muto_'s run. Meg and thirty other chorus girls sighed. It was going to be a long week.

…

As rehearsals frantically resumed above, Erik spent the few days before the play's open recuperating in his _little house on the lake_. His wound was healing quickly, as he always did, especially thanks to the assistance of his dear friend the Persian. Nadir Khan, the former daroga, had arrived shortly after the Giry girl had left, using the gondola that she had left on the lake's outer shore to ferry himself in. Normally, Erik would have had the Siren overturn the boat in punishment for this disobedience, but he just didn't have the strength. In fact, he didn't even know the Persian had made it to the island until he appeared in his bedroom doorway.

"Erik?" Nadir said softly, poking his graying head around the open doorframe.

Erik pushed himself up in his coffin. "Nadir, my friend!" he said, uncharacteristically cheery.

Nadir thought Erik's genial greeting was very odd, and then simultaneously noticed the hookah and the glint of fresh blood on Erik's skeletal exposed back. Hurriedly, Nadir cajoled Erik into letting him bandage the wound, all the while lamenting that he had ever allowed Erik to become addicted to opium.

"And how did you ever manage to get the bullet out on your own? And how are you here in your home while your gondola was on the opposite shore? I only came over because I saw the glint of a flame burning, and I didn't think it was like you to leave a flame unattended. Erik, has Christine Daae been here again?"

Erik snorted derisively, but declined to answer. Nadir was always so nosy. The Persian sighed. He knew that if Erik didn't want to tell him, there was no way to make him talk. Instead, Nadir informed Erik of the commotion underway upstairs. Erik chuckled darkly to himself. He couldn't leave the running of that theatre to the managers for five minutes, could he? He would have to think up something special for opening night, if they continued to defy his wishes.

Nadir sat with Erik for the next few hours. The effects of the opium slowly wore off, and Erik directed Nadir in the preparation of a local anesthetic. The two men chatted and played chess, but Nadir noticed all the while that Erik's pauses seemed to grow increasingly dark. Nadir reluctantly left that night, but was sure that he knew how Erik would spend his next few days. He was sure that Erik would not be satisfied until he reminded the entire opera house who was truly in charge.

…

Before everyone knew it, opening day was upon them. The past few days had been a whirlwind of rehearsals, costume refittings, and overall anger at the oblivious la Carlotta. Finally, the final practice before curtain was over, but no one felt prepared. Everyone was on edge because of the recent casting changes, and in the back of their minds every cast member suspected some form of retribution from the Opera Ghost. Madame Giry kept Meg behind after rehearsal to tell her that Box Five had been sold for the first time in years, to none other than the Viscount de Chagny. Both Giry women were positive that this would be the final blow to the Phantom, but Meg wondered if Erik would be physically fit to enact any diabolical plans. She hoped for all their sakes that he was not.

Now behind all the other cast members, Meg walked alone through the deserted corridors with a feeling of dread. This performance was likely to be a disaster even if Erik didn't cause any disturbances. She had no idea that Erik was already only a few yards away, making some rather devastating additions to Carlotta's throat-soothing spray.

Meg was heading to the back of the third floor to pick up her makeup when she heard a commotion further down the hallway. She began to hurry forward. As soon as she rounded the corner, she could see the dark figures of a man and woman struggling against the wall. The oil lamps in this hallway had been either dimmed or put out, but she thought that she recognized the large man as Joseph Buquet, the stagehand. He had some young woman, definitely one of the ballet rats who was probably back here for the same reason Meg was, held roughly against the wall.

"Hey!" Meg shouted, running forward. She hopped on one foot just long enough to yank off a shoe and throw it forcefully at Buquet. Luckily, she had been wearing real shoes, instead of her ballet slippers, and it hit the man in the shoulder with enough force to make him loosen his hold on his captive. The girl stepped back under the dim light of one of the still-lit oil lamps, and Meg saw with a shock that it was her friend Julie. The shy girl was in tears.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Meg shouted, pulling off her other shoe and throwing it at Buquet's head. He batted it aside and advanced towards Meg.

"Just having a little fun," he growled, his voice as oily as his hair, his eyes flashing with lust.

Meg advanced on him and shoved him hard. Even though she was quite thin, she levered her tall body into the push and Buquet staggered back.

"You're going to pay for ruining my fun," Buquet said menacingly, stepping forwards towards Meg. She pulled her fist back and punched him hard in the jaw. He spun with the force of the blow, but caught her arm and threw her forward. She crashed into the wall and he was on top of her. She managed to catch him in the face once again with an elbow, but he was too heavy. She couldn't get him off of her, and Julie had sunk to the ground against the wall and was sobbing helplessly.

"Get off me!" Meg screamed, thrashing against the stagehand with all her might.

"I'd rather have you anyway," Buquet said softly, his breath hot in her ear. "You were always so different from the others. I thought you'd be fun, and I was right."

Meg let out a strangled scream and tried to kick him between his legs, but he had tangled his legs in her skirts and she couldn't get a good shot. She tried to stomp on his feet, but the stagehands wore thickened boots so that if they dropped anything on themselves during a play, they wouldn't ruin things by crying out in pain. Nothing she did seemed to make any difference other than to fuel his desire.

Suddenly, the world seemed to spin. Everything grew dark and cold. A menacing presence swooped over the combatants like an evil bat, and the smell of death surrounded them. She heard a growl of rage, but it wasn't from her attacker. Buquet let out a frightened whimper. Someone with strong, icy hands ripped Meg from the stagehand's grasp. She felt the world spin again, and then she was back in the dim hallway, landing heavily on the floor next to a sobbing Julie.

Still shaking slightly from all of the adrenaline running through her system, Meg stood. She helped Julie to her feet, hugging her tightly until both women had calmed down. They both stared at the wall in disbelief.

They had just been saved by the Phantom of the Opera.


	41. Comfort and Corpses

Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

**Comfort and Corpses**

Erik stood in the dark hallway, the body of the stagehand lying motionless at his feet. It had been a long time since he killed out of rage, and even longer since he had been so furious as to strangle someone with his bare hands. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Why did that girl have to get herself in so much trouble? All he had been trying to do was prepare for tonight's festivities, when he had heard the Giry girl's familiar voice crying out in anger. He had been so overcome with fury at that man's despicable actions that he had killed without a thought, pulling the pair into the secret hallway through a panel and freeing Meg from the greasy stagehand's grasp. It wasn't that he cared enough for the ballet rat to come to her rescue, but he hated men like Buquet who thought it was their place to control women. Still, it sent a rush through his old veins to kill again. It never ceased to amaze him, when someone's heart stopped, when they stopped breathing, when their eyes made that subtle but ever so important change from bright and deep to flat, filmy and unfocused. As he had said before, killing is like riding. One never truly looses the knack for it.

Through a crack in the paneling, he watched Meg comfort the other girl in the hall, Buquet's intended victim. Over the smaller girl's shoulder, Meg was staring at the place where Erik stood, concealed in his shadowy corridor.

"Thank you," she mouthed, still visibly shaken. Erik guessed that she suspected Buquet was dead due to the lack of sound coming from behind the wall. He wondered if she would mind.

Once the girls were calm and began moving off down the hallway, Erik studied Buquet's body again. The man had been an annoyance to him ever since he had seen him in the upper floors of the Palais Garnier without a mask. Since then, he had spread stories of Erik's gruesome appearance to cast and crew alike. While Erik did appreciate the fear that this dark publicity produced, he hated for his face to be the thing of ghost tales, that young women squealed at and young men scoffed at as being impossible. A morbid idea occurred to him. Perhaps he could use this man's untimely demise in his plans. This was a brilliant idea. Quietly, Erik rearranged the stagehand's body, and then went to fetch some rope.

Meg and Julie hurried off down the corridor, Meg thinking hard about what had just happened. She was glad that Erik's timely intervention had saved her from a horrible fate, but she wasn't sure yet how she felt about the fact that the stagehand was now certainly deceased. She tried to take advantage of Julie's shock to lay down a plan.

"I don't think we should tell anyone about this," Meg began uncharacteristically. She normally would never suggest keeping this silent, but she didn't want to be associated with Buquet's last appearance in the even that his body turned up in one of the underground corridors a few days later, and said as much to Julie.

The smaller girl nodded, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "You're so brave, Meg. You rushed in to save me, and I couldn't do anything to help you. I'm so sorry!"

Meg put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Don't be sorry. We can't control the way we feel in situations like that. It's not your fault. I'm just glad you're alright."

In silence, the girls collected their makeup from the costume director and then went their separate ways, Meg to her room and Julie to the dormitories.

"You're sure you'll be alright?" Meg asked one last time.

Julie nodded, and the girls went to get ready for their opening performance.

…

A short while later, the entire cast assembled to place their costumes on wheeled racks in the backstage corridors. Meg's outfits were separate from the other chorus girls', since as the Maid she had a few more costume changes than the others. She wore a leotard and slip that would allow for fast changes in the crowded corridor between scenes, and her elaborate makeup was already finished. She checked her small hand mirror, raising it high to check that her hair was still in place for the opening scene. She gasped as her mirror revealed the reflection of a tall, black-clad figure standing behind her, but when she whirled around there was no one there. An ominous feeling grew in the pit of Meg's stomach. If Erik was already creeping about as the menacing Phantom, this could bode very badly for the performance.

She joined a group of chorus girls who were quickly listing all of the scenes in the play. She sat on the floor next to their circle and leafed through her copy of the script as they spoke. Meg never felt comfortable during a performance unless she had a script with her that she could review between scenes. She felt certain she would forget something if she didn't have it with her.

There was a faint creak as the large doors to the auditorium were simultaneously opened by velvet-coated ushers. The entire cast rushed to the front of the stage to peer around the curtain and watch the Paris elite file in. Meg joined the group even though being able to see the audience made her so nervous. It was good that soon a stagehand would light the floor-lights that lined the stage front, and the audience would be concealed behind their glare.

Christine came up beside Meg, standing close to peer out through the same slit in the curtain. Meg followed her gaze to where, unfortunately, the Viscount de Chagny was already accepting a program from Madame Giry in Box Five. Meg shook her head sadly, then turned to Christine.

"So, how did the viscount take it when you told him you were no longer playing the lead?"

Christine smiled sheepishly. "He told me not to be sad, and that it was the audience's loss for not being able to hear my beautiful voice."

Meg forced a smile. "That's really sweet. Didn't you say he has to leave soon?"

Christine nodded, her face falling slightly. "After the Masquerade Ball. He is on assignment with the navy on an expedition to the North Pole. I wish he would stay. It's so very dangerous up north!"

Yes, Meg agreed that it was practically suicidal to journey so far north in the dead of winter. But, given the circumstances, it just might be more dangerous to stay in Paris.

At that moment, a crew of large, burly stagehands began wheeling the props for the opening scene onto the stage. Meg thought she heard one ask another if he knew where "that lazy slacker Buquet" was, but she quickly turned away. Her mother had returned from the Boxes and was beckoning all of the chorus men and women towards the wings for a few last words. Meg scoffed as she passed the left wing, where Carlotta's entourage of seamstresses and well-wishers had set up camp. One of them even held a small fluffy white dog with a large pink bow in its fur, which she had to admit was a little cute.

"Now," said Madame Giry, her voice not quite as businesslike as usual, "I know that no one really feels as confident about this performance as we should. Rehearsals have been hectic, but we have put many hours into this opera, and I'm sure that each and every one of you will make this opera house proud." She paused, unsure of how to continue, and then added, "I will ask that you try not to be startled if things go wrong. It is to be expected…when so many last-minute changes are made. But I have faith in all of you. May God be with us tonight." Then, leaving an uneasy silence in her wake, she returned to her station behind the stage left Boxes.

As the chorus line dressed in their opening costumes, Meg could almost feel the nervousness in the air. She kept feeling like she was glimpsing shadows out of the corners of her eyes, especially in the catwalks above. _God, Erik, don't do anything too terrible!_ she thought, clasping her hands together in anxiety.

And then before anyone knew it, the floor lights were lit and the auditorium lamps and the great chandelier were dimmed, and it was time for everyone to take their opening places.

Meg couldn't help thinking in the back of her mind, as the play opened and the audience began their amused laughter, that it was much harder to watch the goings-on of a play from onstage, rather than from the audience. For one, it was always frustrated Meg how the audience always had to have the action spelled out to them. And it was very distracting to watch the actors from onstage. Only Meg could see that when the Countess and the Pageboy "kissed" behind the countess's enormous fan, Carlotta and Christine took the opportunity to snarl or glare daggers at each other. And, of course, when Piangi as the Count took a theatrical playful swipe at her bottom in the first scene, it was very difficult every time for Meg to make the loudest stage gasp she could without choking on her own spit and ruining the scene with her coughing.

Everything seemed to be going well until the first song began. As Carlotta began a set of dizzying arpeggios, the most beautiful, dark, terrifying voice boomed in the ear of every individual in the room.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?!"

The pit orchestra cut off with the screech of a violin. There was almost a tangible pressure drop in the room as two thousand audience members let out frightened gasps.

"The Phantom of the Opera," Meg said, shaking her head. Even though she now knew the man behind the mask, fear still seized her at the sound of that disembodied voice, both so beautiful and so terrible.

"It's him!" Christine gasped, whether from love or from fear Meg couldn't tell.

Carlotta whirled on the younger woman. "Your part is silent, you little toad!" She realized the audience could hear her outburst, and directed a simpering smile in their general direction. She hurried over to her waiting entourage in a flurry of tall hair and hoop skirts, receiving words of encouragement, a lick from the fluffy white dog, and a spritz of throat spray from the assembled sycophants. As she took her time strolling back to center stage, there was an air of menace in the room, as though there were an animal's growl in the air that was just too low to hear.

Meg did her best to hold her stage smile as M Reyer flipped frantically back in his score to start the song again. As soon as Carlotta started singing again, there was a funny look on her face as though something were wrong. Meg heard the sound of the diva's voice, but it sounded oddly distant. Suddenly, the strident notes were replaced with the deafening croak of a toad! Carlotta froze, and the audience tittered nervously. M Reyer started the song once again, but the result was the same. A few bars into the song, Carlotta's voice became that of a giant bullfrog! The diva gave a ragged scream and ran off the stage, sobbing, but the croaking continued. It was soon replaced by maniacal laughter that seemed to saturate the air with the bitter taste of revenge.

Meg started to shake on the inside. Her recent time spent with Erik had made her forget why he was so feared, that he was also the ghostly Phantom of the Opera, with many still-unexplained powers and a viciously vindictive nature.

As the mad laughter died down, Msrs Andre and Firmin appeared onstage, breathing heavily as they had just run down from their Box. They signaled for the curtain to be drawn, which unfortunately left one slow chorus member on the audience side alone for several awkward seconds. The managers did their best to reassure the audience that nothing was wrong, though they could hardly hide their own fear. M. Andre's forehead glistened with nervous sweat in the stage lights. In a nervous babble, M. Andre promised the audience the Spring Ballet number from Act 3 while Christine made the costume change from Pageboy to Countess.

As soon as this was announced, there was a mad sprint towards the costume racks. Everyone hurriedly changed into their floral green frocks for the spring dance as the stagehands changed backgrounds and fetched animals from the back corridors. Meg signaled for the girls who dressed first to help her push the foliage props onto the stage. God, this was going all wrong. What was M. Andre thinking?

The dance began haphazardly, as M. Reyer rallied the pit orchestra to the proper page and time signature. Meg did her best to breathe slowly. This was a calm, peaceful dance, and she needed to not let her stress show. She quietly joined hands with a row of ballerinas, beginning a simple dance in a circle around Marie Simmón, who was swinging sweetly on a wooden swing lowered from the catwalks above. Prima ballerina la Sorelli, dressed in an incomplete Queen of the Faeries costume, began her graceful journey across the downstage.

As the music picked up tempo, a sick feeling swept over Meg. She smelled that same faint whiff of death that she only smelled when Erik was near. Trying not to lose her step, Meg glanced furtively from side to side. She couldn't see anything in the shadows…

Suddenly, Marie let out a blood-curdling scream and toppled backwards off of her swing. Meg whirled around, and came face-to-face with the swinging, twisting corpse of Joseph Buquet.

His hands were raised and open beside his face in a comical expression of terror, his eyes and mouth open in a silent scream. His normally ruddy face was purpled from strangulation, but not as much as if he had truly been hung. He swung from a rope from the catwalk like a giant pendulum.

Screams erupted from cast and audience alike. The managers rushed back onstage to assure everyone that it was just an accident, but the audience was already fighting to fit through all of the exits. The cast was also sprinting back down the corridors into the bowels of the Opera House as quickly as they could. It was clear that this was no accident.

As chaos erupted, so did the maniacal, omnipresent evil laughter. Meg, who was being swept along in the crowd of hysterical chorus girls, began fighting her way back towards the stage. She scanned the catwalks, but the stagehands were all scurrying around, trying to cut Buquet loose. From the distance, though, she saw Christine appear in Box Five and throw herself into Raoul's arms. Meg took several steps forward. Did they think that the Phantom wouldn't notice? She saw Raoul take Christine by the upper arm and try to hurry her away, but she stopped him. Meg saw them exchange words, and then the pair rushed not towards the exit, but back into the opera. Quickly, Meg ran back down the hallway. There was only one place that Christine would think she was safe from Erik's wrathful eyes.

The roof.

…

Still chuckling quietly to himself at all of the ants scurrying away under his command, Erik closed the trapdoor to the catwalk level silently. It had been all too easy to show them who was really in control of this opera house. It was a simple matter to exchange that impertinent diva's throat spray for a potion that would numb her throat and vocal cords, and then to use his masterful powers of ventriloquism to ruin her career with the harsh croaking of a toad. And this had been such a convenient way to dispose of that miserable stagehand's body. It was so easy to create chaos in his little world.

Erik decided that he should get some fresh air. He was in a mood to survey the Paris skyline, and perhaps he would be able to watch the carriages of Paris's wealthy and prominent citizens rushing away into the night as they fled his presence. He never wanted to be feared, but he decided that if he must be, then he might as well go all the way.

He rapidly ascended the three remaining staircases to the roof, emerging into the crisp night air with a smile. He strode to the balcony edge and leaned over, watching happily as a stream of ornate carriages pulled rapidly away from the Populaire. Power was intoxicating.

His gloating was abruptly cut off as the double doors from the main roof staircase burst open. In a heartbeat, Erik had sequestered himself in the shadow of an enormous statue of the Greek God Apollo holding a great lyre. He peered out surreptitiously as Meg Giry rushed out onto the balcony. She was wearing her thin green costume from the Spring Ballet, and had not paused to grab a cloak on her way out. She ran forward towards the balcony's edge, her slippered feet sinking deep into the layer of snow that had settled on the roof. She stopped in the middle of the snowy expanse, looking around frantically. Erik wondered if she was looking for him, if she had something to say about the presentation of the stagehand's body. The girl looked down to rub her arms briskly, and he saw her spot his fresh footprints in the snow. She followed them with her eyes until she had traced the bootprints to the shadowy statue of Apollo.

She had just started towards the statue when the double doors burst open again. Meg whirled to face the door, but Erik grabbed her and dragged her swiftly into the shadows of the statue. He pulled the girl down behind the massive legs of the god and threw his dark cloak over her. Together they peered out to see who had arrived this time.

To Erik's confusion and Meg's unsurprised dread, Christine Daae burst through the double doors, the Viscount de Chagny close on her heels. Christine's eyes were frightened and huge, darting about frantically. She wore a blood-red cloak that billowed out behind her as she rushed to the balcony railing. Raoul trailed after her, pleading with her to please slow down and explain what was wrong. Christine began pacing back and forth, obviously distressed, until Raoul grabbed her by the shoulders and made her face him. Christine seemed to see him for the first time, and then with a frightened sob, rushed into the handsome man's arms in a desperate embrace. Meg winced as Erik's bony fingers tightened on her shoulder in anger.

"Christine, please, just tell me what's wrong. It's not just the accident involving the stagehand—"

"That was no accident, Raoul!" Christine said angrily, pushing out of his embrace. "It was the Phantom of the Opera!"

Raoul rolled his eyes. "Christine, I would have expected better of you. There is no Phantom of the Opera!"

"I've seen him, Raoul!" Christine suddenly fell quiet, looking around fearfully. "I've seen him…and so much more…"

Meg realized what her friend was about to do.

"No," she breathed. She started to stand but at that moment Erik sank down beside her with a devastated sigh of "Christine, Christine…"

Together, they watched in a kind of helpless horror as Christine told Raoul everything about her stay in Erik's home. Raoul was disbelieving at first, but Christine's fear was too real to ignore. As the conversation progressed and snow fell all around, Raoul began to believe, if not in the Phantom, but at least in a menacing, shadowy man who was abusing his sweetheart's naïve innocence in a faerie tale. Meg felt an anger grow in her chest as the two beautiful people professed their love for one another and promised to run away together after the Masquerade Ball (since Christine had already been cast for the dance number and Raoul was to be an honored guest), but she knew it was nothing compared to the rage and hurt that Erik must be feeling. Ever since Christine had begun her tale, he had sat in a stony, motionless silence. Meg couldn't even fathom what must be going on in his head.

After a horrible eternity, the young lovers left to return to the now-silent opera house. Meg and Erik stayed seated silently in Apollo's shadow for several minutes. Finally, Meg stood and shook the snow off of Erik's cloak. She removed it and tried to hand it back to Erik, but he would not move to take it. So she quietly folded it and set it on the ground beside him.

Rubbing her arms against the cold, Meg began to walk slowly across the snowy roof's balcony. Her mind was spinning. Admittedly, Raoul was the perfect match for Christine. Their outlooks on life were similar, they had a wonderful history together, and they were truly in young love. But she had really begun to take Erik's side of the love triangle. After spending so much time with Erik, she knew that he did deserve some happiness out of this life, and that he was absolutely devoted to Christine. Bitterly, it occurred to her that Raoul could be seen as the villain in this situation – taking advantage of Christine's anxiety over Erik to convince her to run away with him. Meg wondered if now Raoul knew who he had shot at so many nights ago at his manor. She wandered over to the railing and leaned against it with a sigh, letting the twinkling lights of the Paris night calm her.

Suddenly, an icy hand gripped her shoulder and whirled her around. Meg stared, terrified, into Erik's mask, which loomed menacingly over her. His eyes were a mad blaze of twin golden flames as he pressed his face close to hers.

"Why did you tell me she could love me, if you knew all along that she was so in love with that twit?"

Meg tried to back up, but was already pressed against the balcony railing. There was something horrible and dead in Erik's voice. She tried to stammer out that she had had no idea, that she was nearly as upset as he was, but Erik advanced on her with out caring to listen.

"You led me on because you thought it was amusing to watch the beast have his heart crushed, didn't you? Well, congratulations, mademoiselle, your plan has succeeded!"

Meg started to protest, but her words were cut off as Erik shot out one bony, leather-gloved hand and began to tighten it mercilessly against her throat.

"Well, isn't this what you wanted? Have I amused you, like some freak in a traveling fair? I'll wager that you have been encouraging… _her_ to pursue her silly little lover, and turning her against me, after all of my efforts!"

Meg scrabbled uselessly at Erik's arm as he began to push forward with his hand around her throat, lifting her feet off of the snowy rooftop and leaning her further out over the railing. Meg glanced down. Though the world was dimming fast, she could see the lights from the main doors spilling onto the stairs seven floors below. She wondered if she would be conscious when Erik pushed her over, if hitting the pavement and breaking into a thousand pieces would hurt terribly. She was sure Erik would kill her in his rage.

Then, with a sudden change of mind and in one swift movement, Erik pulled her back over the railing and tossed her to the ground several feet away, as if she weighed no more than a doll. Meg landed heavily and lay still, trying to breathe and watching Erik nervously. He stood with his back to her, bracing himself against the banister, breathing heavily. He stood that way for several minutes, until he seemed to come to a decision. With a swirl of the cloak that Meg had not seen him don, Erik swept past her and back towards the opera house's interior.

"Erik, wait, please," Meg said weakly, standing up, snow stuck to her arms and legs.

Erik did wait, but he did not turn around.

"There can be no 'Erik' anymore," he said softly. There was something horrible in his voice, something dark and evil in a way that Meg had never heard before, in a way that sent chills of terror to her very bones.

"Now, there can only be the Phantom of the Opera."

And with that, he was gone.


	42. A Morbid Masquerade

**Chapter 37**

**A Morbid Masquerade**

Erik was barely conscious of his actions as he spiraled down the dozen levels back to his lair. His mind had been consumed by a dark rage that possessed him so fully that he could hardly put words to the anger, the betrayal, the utter, soul-wrenching pain that tore at his heart.

In his haze of fury, he arrived back at his small home. His haven, his sanctuary, the one small detail that Christine had not betrayed to that impudent boy. His eyes fell immediately on the opera he had nearly finished. It was a work of pure love, of clandestine beauty, so beautiful and innocent that it could have been composed by the Angels of Heaven. But he knew now that there were no Angels because there was no Heaven, and that the woman that he believed was here to save him did not deserve such a work of beauty.

With an angry growl, he swept the half-finished sheet music off of his writing desk so hard that several sheets fluttered sadly into the dark fireplace. Breathing heavily now, and barely aware of the searing pain that was building in his heart, he stalked across the room and sat heavily on the bench at his pipe organ. He pulled his leather gloves off and rested his long fingers gently against the cool keys of the organ. His hands seemed to move themselves across the keys as a dark, hellish melody issued forth into the lake cavern from his organ's pipes. As he played his notes of pure, superhuman emotion, an idea occurred to him. This was the kind of music that that wench deserved to hear. She should be forced to feel how she had betrayed him, denying him after all he had done for her! He rose to grab a fresh stack of staff paper and saw his masterpiece in its leather folder lying atop the organ. _Don Juan Triumphant!_, his life's work, the bitter story of all of the injustices, all of the sadness, the times of sweet, fleeting joy that were always so soon shattered.

With a sudden inspiration, Erik grabbed the folder and the blank staff paper and practically threw himself to the floor. He frantically removed his cloak and jacket, flinging them unceremoniously away. Ayesha wandered over curiously to see what he was up to, but he ignored her. He grabbed a quill and ink pot, removed his mask, and spread the papers of his life's story all about him. He would build an opera from the sadness contained in these pages – an opera designed to treat Christine exactly the way he had been treated, to show her her greatest mistakes.

He set to work with a feverish pace, transcribing, building his story, ink spattering his carpet as he moved his quill with lightening speed. He couldn't help chuckling to himself at the irony of his story, at the ending that would surprise everyone. He would not eat, would not sleep until this opera was completed. And he had thought of just the perfect way to deliver it…

…

Meg was unable to stop shaking as she made her way back to her small room, but whether it was from the snow or her sheer terror at Erik's transformation, she couldn't tell. In fact, she was so badly shaken by the events on the roof that she wasn't really watching where she was going, and had the supremely bad luck to round the corner into her room's hallway and run bodily into the Viscount de Chagny.

Meg gasped and leapt back. Christine, barely able to pull her eyes out of their romantic gaze with the Viscount, looked at Meg with some concern.

"Are you alright?" Christine asked, transferring her grip from Raoul's arm to Meg's.

Meg's eyes were wide with her recent fright, which was barely enough to keep her from glaring at the pair of them. As terrifying as Erik had been, his pain had been their fault.

"Dearest, I think she's been terribly upset by that poor stagehand's unfortunate accident," Raoul said kindly to Christine.

Meg started. She had almost forgotten about the presentation of Buquet's corpse. Luckily, Christine seemed to take her reaction as confirmation of Raoul's assessment.

"Oh, dear, it was just an accident!" Christine said soothingly, giving Meg a hug that was intended to comfort her. Meg could hardly resist glowering at her when she recalled Christine's completely contradictory statement on the roof less than an hour ago.

Christine turned to her sweetheart. "Maybe I should go sit with her for a while."

Raoul nodded, and respectfully kissed Christine's upraised hand. Their hands lingered a little too long in each others' grasp.

"Sleep well, mademoiselles," Raoul said formally, and departed.

Meg frowned. She didn't want him to be nice. It made it so much harder to hate him.

Christine steered her friend in to Meg's dark room. Still believing that the tall blonde was in shock, Christine lit several lamps and poured water into a basin so Meg could wash off her stage makeup.

Since the audience had deserted the performance after the appearance of a corpse, the fate of the rest of the play's run was uncertain. Normally, the girls would have tried to guess what the plan of action over the next few days would be, but both of them had many other things on their minds.

Meg sat heavily on the bed with an indecipherable sigh, and Christine hurried to sit beside her.

"What's wrong?" the beautiful brunette asked softly. "Not to speak ill of the dead, but you never really cared for that man. I would have guessed that you hated him. Accidents do happen, Meg. Why does it upset you so?"

Meg signed again. At least she had a good story for this one. What could one more lie hurt at this point? At least she could convince Christine that she believed that it had been an accident.

"I had an encounter with him, just this morning. I saw him… making advances towards Julie, and I tried to stop him, but he turned on me instead. We fought, and Julie and I managed to get away, but…" she paused, and let two genuine tears fall to her lap for effect, "I just worry that if someone finds out what happened, Julie or I might be blamed for his death."

Christine bought the story fully.

"Oh, Meg!" she cried with a tiny laugh, throwing her arms around her friend. "No one could possibly think that! You were on the stage when it happened, and Julie was changing into my Pageboy costume right beside me!"

Meg nodded, and hugged Christine back. "You're right." She paused, then added, "I'm sorry you didn't get to sing the Countess's part after Carlotta left. That business with the Phantom was so very frightening! I—I'm not sure what to make of that voice. I mean, I've loved the stories, but I've never wanted to believe the opera was haunted by the Ghost!"

Christine shifted uneasily. Finally deciding that she couldn't come up with an adequate excuse, she just shrugged and said, "Well, I guess there are some things that we aren't meant to understand."

Meg wasn't really paying attention, but she nodded in agreement anyway. After a few more minutes of distracted conversation, Christine bade Meg a good night and retired to her own dressing room.

Meg washed her face half-heartedly and changed into a nightshift. She cloimbed into bed and curled into a ball. Now that her fear had subsided, an empty pit of sadness had carved its way into her chest. Poor Erik. None of this—the situation, his reaction—was really his fault. She had to think of a way to make this right.

She still hadn't thought of anything by the time she drifted off into a fitful sleep full of masks, corpses, and snowy tears.

…

Meg awoke just in time for rehearsal the next morning. There, the entire cast was informed that due to advance ticket sales, they were still planning to hold the remainder of the play's performances. If no one chose to show up, then and only then would there be no performance. In the meantime, rehearsals for the Masquerade Ball would resume immediately. The managers were now counting on the proceeds from the Ball to make up for any losses they were incurring from diminished attendance at _Il Muto_. Meg guessed that they were not especially grateful that they had recently acquired a new patron.

In light of this plan, and since they hadn't really gotten far into the performance the night before and had nothing specific to correct, the group immediately split up into rehearsal groups for the separate masquerade numbers. There was barely over a week until the all itself, but luckily the dances were not hard to learn. The ball was to be held in the Populaire's Grand Foyer, so the separate groups took turns practicing there instead of on the stage or in the largest rehearsal hall, on the fourth floor.

In the breaks between rehearsals, the girls around Meg excitedly discussed their costumes for the dance. Meg hadn't decided what she wanted to go as yet, and she was distinctly unable to share in the other girls' excitement. She was continuously experiencing a feeling of sickness and unease, as though there were a darkness surrounding her that she couldn't see, or a sad and angry song playing somewhere just out of earshot. She spent most of her free time fruitlessly trying to come up with a plan to ease Erik's pain. She couldn't even decide on the best way to go about it.

To an observer, it would seem as though life in the opera had gone back to normal over the next week, though Meg noticed the same unease that she had been feeling starting to affect the other girls. Despite a terrifying review of the opening performance in L'Epoque, a small number of the public continued to attend the successive performances. Rehearsals and the decorations for the Ball were coming together nicely, except that Meg had still not picked a costume. She was with her rehearsal group, waiting to use the Grand Staircase for practice, when the perfect idea occurred to her. She was watching as a spindly-legged black spider spun her web between two ballisters of the staircase when she recalled how Erik had reacted when she had tried to clear out the cobwebs from his home. He had been so close to the spiders, so empathetic to the shadowy creatures. That was when Meg thought of the perfect costume.

As soon as their turn to rehearse in the Foyer was through, Meg immediately sprinted up to the costume shop. Unlike the members of the public who would be attending the ball, the inhabitants of the Opera House were allowed to choose their costumes from the Populaire's overflowing costume shop. Meg was sure she could find what she was looking for there.

It took nearly an hour of searching, but finally she found the perfect dress. It was a simple dress in midnight black silk, with glittery silver stitching outlining the crisscrossing lines of a spider's web in a way that made the dress seem more curvaceous than it actually was. She wasn't sure what opera it had been created for, but it was exactly what she was looking for. It was a little big, especially due to her recent weight loss, but it would luckily be long enough, and she could ask one of the seamstresses to take the waist in a bit. She searched nearby to see if there was a matching mask, but couldn't find one. She would either find a mask elsewhere later that would work well enough, or she would simply apply decorative makeup to match.

Meg saw little of Christine over the next week, and was continuously unable to come up with a plan to help Erik. However, the run of _Il Muto_ soon drew to a close and the new year was upon them. With the new year came fresh snowfall and the Masquerade Ball. Meg had not found an appropriate mask, and instead had had great fun painting her face into spidery beauty. She darkened her eyes and eye sockets, fading the black into a detailed web that she drew across half of her face. She had pulled her hair up and pinned a small dark veil into the back. All in all, she thought she looked quite impressive, even though she would probably stand out for being the darkest character at the Ball.

As the sun set over the Parisian skyline, Meg joined her dance group in a third-floor hallway which had small windows that overlooked the Grand Foyer. Together with the other chorus men and women in her group, she watched as Paris's elite filtered in in their elaborate costumes. After the recent scare at _Il Muto_'s opening night, the popular costume seemed to be to attend as the Phantom of the Opera. Countless men were dressed in elegant evening attire and wearing a simple death's maskas their costume. She wondered who had told them the stories of Erik's appearance, now that Buquet was dead. She also wondered if they would find their costumes so fine if they knew the truth of what they were mimicking.

She spotted her friend Lissette arrive on the arm of a wealthy-looking gentleman she didn't know, and reminded herself to make sure to speak with her later. She even noticed the dark Persian man that she had met in that deserted corridor so long ago. All of the dancers watched as the Messrs Firmin and Andre welcomed the guests and officially opened the dance, and then as the first group performed their number. That was Christine's group, and Meg could see many members of the public pointing surreptitiously at her as the group made their way down the Grand Staircase and danced their routine. Once the number ended and the dancers broke off to assimilate themselves into the crowd, Meg watched as Christine, resplendent in a soft pink gown, quickly met up with the Viscount de Chagny, who looked quite dashing in his naval uniform. She hoped that their attempt to be together tonight didn't cause any problems. However, she had little time for hoping, since her group was up next for the dance routine.

As Meg descended the stairs with her fellow performers, she had no idea that all eyes were immediately drawn to her. She had thought she looked good in her spidery costume, but would never have expected that all of the men in the audience would find her so alluring. She brought a mysterious beauty to the dance, and when it was over and she made her way through the crowd, all eyes followed her progress.

It wasn't long before the final group had performed and the musicians began a soft waltz for the guests to begin dancing to. Meg tried to use her dark dress to blend into the shadows at this point; her mother had made it quite clear that all chorus members were expected to dance with any member of the public who so asked, and she really wasn't much of a social dancer. However, many men had already marked her as their target for the evening. As soon as the first song was over, when the majority of men danced with the women they had brought to the party, Meg's hiding spot behind one of the marble columns was surrounded by elegantly dressed members of Paris's elite. Something strange seemed to grip at Meg's heart as she found herself encircled by poor imitations of the Phantom of the Opera. As she accepted the first hand proffered to her with a faux-gracious smile, the other masked individuals followed her in a crowd, so that as she danced to a rapid quickstep surrounded by a dozen Phantoms. She spun so quickly with her interchanging partners that the circle of masked figures became a dark blur, and she began to feel quite sick.

As yet another song came to a close, she graciously excused herself and walked quickly away from the Ghostly gentlemen, fanning herself with a black fan whose lace was woven in a spiderweb pattern. She passed close to where Christine and Raoul were dancing too close together, gazing deep into each others' eyes. Was tonight the night they were planning to make their escape, or would they be packing over the next few days and leave within the week? She strode quickly in the other direction.

She noticed a small commotion near the entrance to the Foyer. The guests were all murmuring as they made room for the newest guest to the party, a tall, spectral figure in torn yet opulent red silk, an enormous red feathered hat, and the most convincing, terrifying death's head that anyone had ever seen. A death's head that Meg recognized very well.

As Meg approached, the so-familiar smell of death became increasingly apparent. She watched as one of her partners in the Phantom garb reached out to tap the figure on the shoulder, probably to ask where he had found such a life-like mask, when the mysterious guest whirled on the man and snarled in a familiar commanding voice,

"Touch me not. I am Red Death, passing by."

Meg pushed easily through the crowd. As the richly dressed guests parted between them, Meg strode directly up to the figure and asked with the tiniest smile,

"Pardonez-moi, Monsieur, but would you care to dance?"

Erik froze, taking in Meg's spidery appearance appraisingly. He had almost not recognized her. She was much bolder in costume, hiding behind her makeup. She looked good. He had come to survey the state of the dance, to see the people before he made his demands, to see if that treacherous boy had dared to show his face in his Opera House once again. But the crowd was watching now, looking almost fearful for the thin figure in front of him. So he silently took Meg's black-gloved hands in his own red-clad ones and led her to the center of the Foyer, where the music of the orchestra's waltz was coming to a close.

"From _The Masque of the Red Death_?" Meg asked as the orchestra began a stately tango.

Erik did not respond. He had not forgiven the child for her own deception. He was only dancing to move himself more quickly through the crowd. Still, Meg admired his strong frame and the confidence with which he executed the tango's steps. She didn't need him to respond. She was just glad that he seemed to be a little better than the last time she saw him.

That was, until she completed a turn under Erik's upraised hand to find him vanished before the eyes of the onlooking crowd. She sighed. Perhaps his appearance did have ulterior motives. Just as she began to hurry towards Christine and the Viscount, the emphatic tango music ended abruptly with a screech of strings. Meg spun to look up at the balcony where the small orchestra had been seated, only to see the musicians backing away from their instruments with looks of fear on their faces. As every eye was turned to the abandoned instruments, something terrifying and inexplicable began to occur. The cello righted itself from where it had fallen, and the violins straightened themselves on the musicians' abandoned chairs. Bows rose in unison and, in the stunned silence, a chord of anger and menace rang out through the Grand Foyer. At that instant, a plume of fire and bright red smoke erupted at the top of the staircase. Erik, his death's garb and flame-lit maskless face making him seem purely demonic, stepped through the smoke from nowhere and let out a horrible mirthless laugh.

"Welcome, good messieurs," Erik said, gesturing expansively, "to my Opera House. I trust that you have all been thoroughly enjoying the festivities. I have one more surprise for you, my dear guests." With a flourish, he produced an enormous leather folder from the nowhere and threw it up into the air. An unseen wind seemed to catch the heavy folder and it floated impossibly down the staircase to land at the feet of the astonished managers, who stared dumbfounded and openmouthed up at the mysterious figure.

"I have written you an opera," Erik announced grandly, making the simple statement sound like a pronouncement of doom upon all present.

Meg breathed in sharply as she got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. This wasn't what she had meant at all. She knew there was still something terribly wrong with Erik. She could see something wild in his blazing eyes, barely visible in his sunken sockets.

"You will find a detailed list of instructions, regarding casting, costumes, and instrumentation enclosed within," Erik said, his voice powerful but utterly emotionless. Meg saw him scan the crowd and focus on Christine. Raoul had left her side, and the brunette stared up at her teacher with tears of sorrow and longing in her large, beautiful eyes. Erik's gloved hands flexed and balled into fists briefly, but otherwise he made no sign that he cared for his pupil any longer. He turned his deathly gaze back onto the managers.

"I expect my instructions to be followed to the letter. Until we meet again, messieurs—"

Suddenly, Erik was engulfed in a column of orange fire, and every lamp in the Grand Foyer flared with a sudden intensity. Every onlooker ducked and shielded his or her eyes. There was a clatter as the Viscount de Chagny, brandishing a saber, rushed into the hall but was immediately blinded by the hot glare. By the time anyone looked up again, Erik was long gone.


	43. Problematic Plannings

I can't believe people are still reading this story, much less reviewing! You guys are so awesome. I would blame school, and now work, but actually I know that my problem was that this was a transition chapter – something that I didn't already have in my head that I really had to think about and make some future plans for. So it was hard to get into writing it. But I finished it! Hopefully the next chapters shouldn't take _nearly_ as long! ~Paige Turner

**Chapter 38**

**Problematic Plannings**

Thankfully, M Richard Firmin seemed galvanized into action by the figure's dramatic departure. After a long moment of stunned silence, the large manager bounded up the steps of the grand staircase and scooped up the leather portfolio, his eyes darting among all of the individuals present he thought might be able to help him.

He cleared his throat nervously, and managed to squeak out, "Bravo, Monsieur! Well, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, some of our actors take their roles a little too seriously!" Many of the guests still had not risen from their cowering positions after the Phantom's dramatic departure, and the manager's laugh echoed hollowly around the large hall. Firmin cleared his throat again, and began to sweat visibly.

"Well, ahem, we're terribly sorry for the fright, but we would like to take this opportunity to announce the first opera for the new year—" here he surreptitiously checked the cover of the large portfolio— "_Don Juan Triumphant!_"

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch forever, during which everyone who knew the true identity of the mysterious figure waited anxiously to see if the guests would accept the manager's explanation.

To everyone's great relief, one of Meg's noble partners in Phantom garb began to clap in a slow and genuinely impressed manner. Meg immediately joined in, and with a collective sigh, many of the other Opera personnel joined in. Slowly, as they realized what an amazing and convincing performance it had been to draw them in like that, the rest of the audience joined in the applause with increasing enthusiasm. The adulation reached a near-thunderous volume as the guests began to laugh at their own fear. As the applause spread, M Firmin made a nervous flap of his hands to signal someone—anyone—to join him in front of the crowd. Mme Giry, dressed sternly in an austere black dress, a shiny dark mask of a fierce bird's beak, and her traditional hat with the tattered crow's feathers sticking out of the top, seized Meg's hand and began pulling her towards the Grand Staircase. Meg, in turn, held fast to Christine's hand. It was deathly cold, and the lovely brunette looked too pale, as though she might faint if her tutor suddenly appeared once more. Their movement cued M Andre, Carlotta, Piangi, and a few other dancers still present to migrate towards the staircase for this impromptu performance.

The crowd cheered hardest when Meg presented Christine to them, the shy singer's cheeks blushing as prettily pink as her dress despite the current pallor of her skin. The guests lavished praise on the young star for her believable fear of the spectre, which they felt was a clever jab at the rumors which had recently been circulating about the way things were run in the Populaire. All of the guests save the Viscount de Chagny, that is. He stared in barely controlled rage and fear as Christine got closer and closer to the trapdoor that Meg guessed Erik had used to escape. Raoul appeared to be hardly able to restrain himself from rushing to Christine's side in an effort to protect her from the monster whose existence he was increasingly forced to acknowledge.

As Meg bowed beside her bewildered fellows, each of them smiling falsely to hide their fear and confusion (except for Carlotta, who loved applause even if she had done nothing to deserve it), she rapidly scanned the shadows of the Grand Foyer, searching desperately for a glint of Erik's death's head or his glowing eyes—anything to tell her where he had sequestered himself to watch the aftermath of his commands. She could see no sign of the man, and thought that perhaps he had been so angry with Christine and her young protector that he had simply left the scene in disgust.

Son, the applause died down and gave way to a happy chatter. The musicians warily made their ways back to their stations, and though they searched intently, they could find no evidence of how their instruments could have been so hauntingly manipulated.

Since Meg had been pulled away from her hiding spot by the commotion and its ensuing drama, several gentlemen now approached her to claim another round of dances. Meg did her best to smile graciously and fulfill her dancing attendance as quickly as possible, but she wondered if her partners could tell how uneasy and distracted she was. Probably not, she thought, since her dance steps were so well rehearsed that she was probably more likely to "sleepwaltz" than sleepwalk.

As the hour grew late and guests slowly began to pair up and filter out into the night to their waiting carriages, Meg managed to escape her final partner's attempts to invite himself back to her dressing room and began to search for her mother through the thinning crowd. She stood briefly _en point_ to see over the crowd, but she caught no sign of Mme Giry's crow-feather hat. She did, however, spot Christine and Raoul, standing apart from the remaining guests with their heads close together. Raoul seemed to be speaking vehemently about something, and though Christine's head was bowed, Meg could see that her arms were crossed in her one gesture of defiance.

Meg crossed the floor to join them, but thought better of it halfway there and hid herself in the shadow of one of the marble columns nearest the couple.

"But why not?" she heard Raoul demand, his voice strained with pleading and frustration.

"You know why I can't leave," Christine responded, her voice soft but determined.

"Honestly, Christine, I can't understand it at all. The man is a terror! You said yourself how very much he frightened you."

Christine sighed, and Meg could practically feel Raoul vibrating with agitation like the taut string of a violin. "You know as well as I why he wrote that opera. After coaching me for so long, do you think that he would compose an entire opera and not expect me to do my part for it?"

Raoul continued his insistent protest. "Christine, I—"

Meg sighed, and slowly stepped away from the deep shadow of the pillar. Raoul caught sight of her over Christine's shoulder, and was so startled by the spectral manner of her appearance that his sword was halfway out of its scabbard before he realized that it was the Giry girl, and not the Phantom, who approached. He resheathed his sword guiltily and coughed.

"That was quite a performance, mademoiselle," he said, and a suspicious note in his tone made Meg wonder if he was referring to Erik's appearance or her calm response to it.

She tried to ignore her worries as she responded flippantly, "Yes, I thought it was a wonderful idea! What a great way to announce the next opera!" She briefly considered offhandedly mentioning that it had been on of the chorus men in the Red Death costume, but she knew Christine would immediately spot the lie and decided against it. "I wish I knew who they got to play the Phantom—that was spectacular!"

She grinned at Raoul, fanning herself lightly to hide her nervousness, but the viscount's eyes were narrowed in a way that said he saw through her false gaiety.

"Didn't I see you dancing with him, right before the…performance?" Raoul asked pointedly. Christine turned to look at Meg with a questioning expression, which the blonde returned with a raised eyebrow.

"I did, monsieur." Meg's heart was beginning to beat faster as she again met Raoul's increasingly thoughtful gaze. "He didn't speak, but he was an incredibly good dancer. That hardly narrows it down, though."

There was an uneasy pause, and Raoul had just opened his mouth to ask another question when Meg finally caught sight of her mother, speaking to a sweaty, red-faced stagehand in a corner of the Grand Foyer. She took her chance.

"Oh, there she is!" she exclaimed, her tendency to babble when confronted beginning to bubble to the surface. "Excuse me, I must go and speak with my mother." Nodding her farewells to the couple, Meg fought the urge to run as she crossed the floor towards Mme Giry. There was something very unsettling in Raoul's suspicious gaze, something that told Meg that he was putting far too many pieces of this puzzle together, and that he was close to being able to make out the full picture. Maybe she shouldn't have danced with Erik tonight. But how was she to know that he would be making such a spectacle? And he really was an excellent dancer…

Mme Giry finished speaking to the stagehand and turned to her approaching daughter. "Yes?" she asked, beginning to walk and letting Meg fall in beside her.

"Oh, nothing," Meg said, not having actually had something particular to say. "I think the Ball went exceptionally well, don't you?"

Antoinette pursed her lips into a thin line and thought hard before answering with a casual affirmative.

Meg opened her mouth to speak again, and Antoinette, fearing that her daughter would begin asking questions about the identity of their mysterious guest, abruptly cut her off with instructions to retire for the evening if she was no longer going to dance with the guests. Meg frowned at the sudden suggestion, but since it meant that she didn't have to dance with anyone else, shrugged and headed back down the twisting corridors to her dressing room.

Antoinette breathed a quiet sigh of relief as Meg's dark form disappeared down the hallway. She had seen her daughter approach the phantasmal guest, their subsequent dance, and Meg's all-too-wise reaction to the presentation of the new opera. She prayed that her daughter was not doing anything to endanger the Phantom's promise of her future success. She clenched her fist tightly around a small square of parchment that she had found concealed in her fan shortly after the presentation of _Don Juan Triumphant!_. She no longer needed the death's head seal to recognize the author of the note.

_Madame Giry,_

_I must charge you with ensuring that take the rehearsals of my opera seriously. I trust that you shall have no difficulty in convincing others of my sincerity in this matter. I thank you for your continued devotion._

_O.G._

_P.S. Tell your daughter that she should keep a better posture during her molinetes._

Antoinette closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. It appeared that she should prepare herself for several mysterious displays of will over the next few days, as the managers and director would slowly be forced to accept this modification to their lineup.

"Madame?" A soft, sweet voice accompanied the gentle touch on her arm. Antoinette opened her eyes to behold Christine Daae and the Viscount de Chagny, both watching her anxiously.

"Are you feeling well, Madame?" Raoul followed Christine's inquiry with his own.

Antoinette smiled wanly, assuring the beautiful young couple that all was well; she was simply tired.

"Mme Giry does _everything_ for this opera," Christine explained to her escort. "She organizes all of the dancers, coordinates the cleaning and decoration crews, and directs the managers and divas without them being any the wiser."

"It sounds like you have earned your rest, Madame," Raoul said, his gentleman's manners a welcome change from the stagehands and "gentleman callers" she was used to dealing with.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Antoinette said, bobbing a curtsey and flushing slightly.

Christine grasped one of Antoinette's hands in both of hers. "Please, get some rest, Madame," she said, her large doe eyes sympathetic and imploring.

Antoinette almost chuckled at the girl's dramatic demeanor, but she really was exhausted. The night's surprises, on top of the stress and effort that always went into a performance of any kind, had left her drained. So instead, she nodded acquiescingly and bade the happy lovers a good night.

…

The dance slowly wound down, and before long the musicians were packing up their instruments and a maid appeared to extinguish the candelabras. Raoul walked his secret fiancé back to the door of her dressing room. Their furtive kiss goodnight was witnessed by only one pair of eyes, eyes that glinted blood-red in the darkness of the secret passage from which their owner watched, growing more furious by the second. The man with the glowing eyes forced himself to resist the urge to kill the young viscount as he left their love and quickly exited the Populaire. There would be time for that later. For now, he had a plan to enact. The rage that built within him at his pupil's betrayal would serve to fuel his strict disciplining of anyone who dared to question his opera's instructions over the next several days.

…

The following afternoon, a meeting was held among all members of the Opera House community. The cast, musicians, stage crew, seamstresses, sculptors, painters, and assorted hangers-on filed into the seats of the Grand Auditorium, and Monsieur DuGaulle, M Reyer, M Firmin, M Andre, Mme Giry, and Mme DuLevre took their places at the front of the massive stage. It was just like receiving notes, just like they did after every performance, except that all of the men and women onstage looked grave and anxious (except for M DuGaulle, who just looked hung-over.

Once everyone had seated themselves in the plush velvet chairs, an uneasy hush fell over the group. Everyone in the audience watched the stage anxiously, and everyone on the stage was watching M DuGaulle, waiting for him to pick up the mysterious leather folder that lay beside him and address the crowd. However, the director seemed interested only in nursing his pounding head, and was most unwilling to stand or make any loud noises. With an irritated sigh, because this happened all too frequently, Mme Giry stalked over to the aching man, making sure to clack her heels loudly against the stage floor just to annoy him. She picked up the large portfolio, pulled out a large stack of parchment sheets all marked in the same scarlet ink, and read the first page aloud.

"_Monsieur Director, _

_Thank you for so graciously overseeng the production of my opera. Enclosed, you shall find a detailed account of casting, set, and costume requirements, as well as a complete score. Individual parts may have yet to be separately transcribed, but one does the best one can with limited time. I'm sure you understand, and will gladly oversee the necessary processes. I should like to remind you that, should any of my instructions be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I advise you not to test me, lest the beautiful story on the following pages turn unfortunately disastrous. _

_Your obedient servant, _

_O.G."_

Mme Giry did not look up as the sound of her own voice quietly repeating the phrase "unfortunately disastrous" echoed unnaturally around the enormous chamber. Instead, she sat gracefully in front of one of the cheerfully burning floorlights, intending to separate out the stack of parchment into costume directions, music, choreography, set design, and so on. However, she was immediately interrupted by a rude noise from the post-inebriated man seated a few feet away.

"Opera Ghost," DuGaulle spat derisively, his anger overcoming his headache. "Some mythical madman who thinks he can tell me how to run my plays! We are performing _The Children of Prosperity_ next, not this lunacy! I will not allow—"

His rapidly escalating speech was abruptly brought to an end by a sudden cacophony. A dozen cymbals had mysteriously fallen from the catwalks in a circle around the irate director, cutting him off with the loudest sound possible. DuGaulle leapt straight up into the air, his hands clasped tight to his ears, and swore viciously. Through the swearing, the still-ringing tones of some of the cymbals, and the nervous laughter of her fellow onlookers, Meg thought that she could hear the sound of a low, malicious chuckle.

After several minutes, in which the managers, M Reyer, and Mme Giry, and the other men and women onstage glared at him pointedly, the director stood and blinked sullenly around the expectant auditorium.

"We have decided," he began, darting red-eyed glances back at the managers," to cut _The Children of Prosperity_ from our program this season in favor of a recently acquired new opera entitled _Don Juan Triumphant!_.

A low murmur broke out in the audience. No one was fooled by DuGaulle's fake control over the situation. He rubbed his hands together nervously under the weight of so many skeptical stares. He opened his mouth, obviously working hard to come up with some reason he could use to excuse his sudden attitude change, but no sound came out. He flushed, and then snatched the leather portfolio from Madame Giry and opened it with an irritated huff. He practically ripped the folder open and shoved the stack of parchment inside back at Madame Giry. She split the stack with M Reyer, and as they began sorting the pages, the managers moved to hover over their shoulders with an air of apprehension. Meg could see the spiky, spidery notes slashed across the yellow pages. As those in charge began looking through the pages, looks of concern and awe passed across their faces. There was complete silence in the auditorium as everyone waited with baited breath for anything about the opera to be revealed.

Suddenly, the grubby man in charge of set design and the stagehands burst out "This is madness!" All eyes snapped to him, but his attention was still devoted to the sheet of parchment in his hands, on which was drawn a detailed sketch of a set. "These are far too complex! There are trapdoors, and mirrors, and flames… This is too much!"

DuGaulle sat heavily on the stage, holding his head in his hands.

Madame Giry pulled a thick sheet of parchment out of her stack. She snapped it straight, read it briefly, and then handed it to the director. Meg could tell from the format of the page (or, what she could see of it as the page was lit from behind by the floorlights) that it was a play summary sheet. The paragraph at the top, penned in that spiky hand in glittering scarlet ink, would be the plot summary. Below that, shorter paragraphs gave brief biographies of the principle characters. The director gave a low groan.

"I need to speak with the following people," he sighed. "Christine Daae, Ubaldo Piangi, Carlotta Guidichelli—" his words and the audience's murmuring and squeaks of surprise were drowned out by an indignant shriek from Carlotta. Never, _never_ had she been listed third on a cast list! Never had she been so insulted. She began shouting furiously in Italian over her hangers-on's attempts to soothe her. Christine, oddly, didn't look at all excited at having been given the starring part. In fact, she looked as though she were about to be violently ill. Meg opened her mouth to ask if she were alright, when the sound of her own name drew her up short. The director had just called her name as the last on the list! An ugly knot twisted itself into Meg's stomach. She had a bad feeling about this… Why would Erik have assigned her a named part? Of course, she was not at all surprised that Christine was given the lead, no matter what the opera was about. She had, after all, suggested to Erik that he write an opera as a gift to his pupil. And after his disturbing display at the Masquerade Ball, she was not surprised that the gift had morphed into one last desperate attempt to control the object of his desire.

After a stunned, suspicious moment, Meg focused back on the commotion in the room. Carlotta was throwing a temper tantrum surrounded by her handlers and admirers, flapping her pink-gloved hands in agitation and stomping her pink high-heeled shoes. With a final sob and shriek of rage, the diva burst from her circle of comforters and fled down the aisle to the huge doors at the rear of the auditorium. As the heavy door swung shut behind her, an odd silence spread over the room. Carlotta's dramatic reaction made the strangeness of the situation seem more real. Attention slowly shifted back to the director, who was still standing dumbly on the stage, holding the play summary sheet.

Thankfully, Ubaldo Piangi spoke up. "I will collect her notes," he announced in his famously booming voice, heaving his enormous girth out of one of the velvet-lined chairs.

This seemed to break the uneasy spell that had spread over the group, and a low murmur broke out again. Those whose names had been called rose and approached the stage. Madame Giry removed a small section of papers form her stack and began passing out the parts. Meg's part was at the bottom of the pile, but Mme Giry gave her daughter only a significant look, and kept the page with her own sheets for the time being. Meg nodded at her mother in understanding and returned to her seat.

Once the principles were seated and the room was quiet again, DuGaulle outlined their rehearsal schedule for the next several weeks. It would be slightly more rushed than their normal schedule, because sets had already been under construction and music had already been passed out for _The Children of Prosperity_, and now that work would have to be redone before singing and dancing rehearsals could really get underway. Since the new year had started, and the new managers were eager to see their first profits of 1870, those in charge had previously decided that the next opera, whatever it was, would open within the month.

A standard timeline for rehearsals, set construction, costume designs, ticket sales,, and so on, was laid out to the various departments, and then the director dismissed the group. As usual, the ballet rats immediately flocked to Mme Giry, awaiting further instructions. The ballet mistress thumped her cane hard against the stage floor so that the surrounding area fell quiet and she could speak easily. She told the congregated men and women that they would meet the following day, by which time she would have reviewed each major dance number and would be able to begin instructing them on the first number. Then, at Mme Giry's signal, the meeting broke apart and the chorus members went their separate ways.

As the ballet rats dispersed, prima ballerina La Sorelli approached Madame Giry for her own instructions. Meg wandered back into the rows of seats to wait for her mother. The prima ballerina would not only have the most difficult and most prominently featured parts, but she was also in charge of the youngest girls and any chorus movements they were part of. As Meg took a seat next to a wide marble pillar, she spotted the Count de Chagny, Philippe, standing nearby in the aisle. His long brown hair, very like his younger brother's, fell down to the white silk scarf draped across the shoulders of his thick, luxurious overcoat. He held a dark top hat clasped in both hands, which were gripping his ornate ivory-topped cane in dark-gloved hands. His eyes were fixed adoringly on La Sorelli, without as much lust as Meg normally caught in men's gazes. Meg allowed herself a shadow-veiled smile. The Count actually looked sweet, waiting on his lady like that.

She was jolted out of her silent contentment as the auditorium door nearest her flew open with a bang. Luckily, the auditorium was nearly empty by now, so there were very few heads left to turn in surprise as the Viscount de Chagny stalked angrily up to his older brother, a look of murderous rage on his usually handsome face.

Philippe looked shocked as Raoul rapidly approached. "My dear brother, what—"

Raoul cut him off with a violent _Ssshhhhh!_ He grabbed his brother's arm and practically dragged him out of the aisle, into the shadowed rows of seats several feet behind Meg. She sank down in her chair and pretended to study her fingernails, praying that she wouldn't be noticed.

"What are you doing?" Philippe hissed angrily, jerking his arm from his brother's grasp.

"What are _you_ doing?" Raoul hissed back. "How can you just sit there, smiling like a fool, while all of this is happening?"

"How can you be here at all?" Philippe shot back. "Shouldn't you be packing for the North Pole?"

"I can't leave now!" Raoul cried. "Not with this new opera being announced! Can't you see who is behind all of these casting changes?"

Philippe reached out a gloved hand and rested it on Raoul's shoulder.

"My dear little brother, I understand that you feel like you need to protect your little lady friend, from what I don't know, but don't you think that you may be inventing trouble where there is none?"

Raoul brushed his brother's hand away angrily. "This madman is manipulating everyone in this opera house! The Phantom of the Opera—"

Philippe laughed aloud. "Surely you don't believe those foolish stagehands' tales?"

"How can you not?" Raoul demanded. "You saw the figure at the Masquerade Ball! You heard his demands! This is no ordinary man!"

Philippe laughed again. "What is he, a ghost? Brother, I am in complete support of protecting my investments, but you are making a conspiracy out of a simple clever performance! Sorelli insists that this Phantom nonsense is nothing but tales used to frighten children and ballet dancers, and a good excuse to harass that annoying diva of a soprano."

Meg dared not turn around for fear of being noticed, but she could imagine the rage and frustration that must be clouding Raoul's handsome face. When the young man spoke again, his voice was tight with suppressed emotion.

"I cannot leave the country while this lunatic is allowed to run free. The managers and staff are obviously too threatened by him to do anything about the situation, and thus they cannot be trusted with Christine's safety. It is obvious that this Phantom tends to take advantage of here, as he is already manipulating her for her voice and beauty. Who can say when he will take it further? I vow never to let that sweet girl out of my sight for an instant while that monster is free. I will protect her with every breath left in my body. And if this "Phantom" dares to try to hurt her, or so much as shows his face to me, I will kill him on sight!"

Meg's heart was pounding in her chest as Raoul turned and strode purposefully away. As Philippe sighed and meandered back towards the stage to wait for his lady, Meg quietly slipped out of her chair and hurried along the shadows towards her dressing room. Speaking with her mother would have to wait. She had to warn Erik, and now.


	44. Emotional Encouragement

_You guys should love this. It was really easy – and fun!—to write._

**Chapter 39 **

**Emotional Encouragement**

Once she was out of the auditorium, Meg practically flew back to her room, hardly slowing down before running up to the large mirror and jamming a finger onto the hidden button that released the mirror from its frame. She slid the silvered glass aside, crossed back to her door to lock it, snatched up her small lamp, and then hurried down the passageway. She made the descent to the fifth basement with no difficulties, despite her worried state. She traveled in a skipping half-walk, half-run, anxious to warn Erik of Raoul's threat. She knew he must have been at the meeting earlier, but she thought that if he had been there to hear the de Chagny brothers' exchange, he would not have kept silent. Not in his current state.

Before long, Meg found herself on the gravelly shore of that still, silent lake so far beneath the Earth's surface. There was no black gondola resting on the shore, so Erik must be in his little house, hidden across the waters. Feeling awkward in the dead quiet, she called out his name. The word seemed to hang in the thick, damp air, consumed by the silence. Meg shouted louder, and this time the word cut through the stillness like a knife, echoing back at her faintly from the cavernous walls.

"Erik!"

"Yes?"

Meg jumped as Erik's quiet, silken voice spoke right next to her ear. She whirled, shining her light into the thick shadows, but there was no one there. She sighed. Erik, always the master ventriloquist, could never stop playing his games. She turned back to the shore in agitation.

"Erik, I need to speak with you!"

Through the dying echoes of her request, she heard the faint sound of wood scraping against wet gravel. Hopefully, that was Erik, pushing his little boat off of the opposite shore. She waited, shifting anxiously from foot to foot, until a dark shape began to emerge from the mist that hung like a blanket over the dark waters.

Tall, dark, and mysterious, Erik jumped from his gondola as it glided neatly onto the shore and stood facing Meg with a regal bearing. The shadows seemed to swirl tighter around his black cloak, and Meg could see the reflection of the flame from her lamp glinting off of his polished porcelain mask, creating a sharp contrast.

"Yes?" Erik asked again, his lovely voice expressing his sharp annoyance.

Unable to think of any introductory statements, Meg launched immediately into a brief account of the de Chagny brothers' exchange. Erik remained completely motionless as she recounted everything from Philippe's disbelief in the Phantom's existence to Raoul's threat against Erik's life. As she finished her story, she paused, hoping that Erik would have something to say about the news, but he simply continued to watch her from behind that emotionless mask.

Finally, the silence grew too heavy for Meg to bear any longer, and she burst out, "Please, Erik, what I'm trying to say is, just be careful. Raoul knows you're behind the change in operas, and he will be watching for you to make any mistake that he can use to find you. He's just as much in love with Christine as you are, it's just…different. They grew up together, and she was really looking forward to his companionship, so please… please don't just use your tricks to steal her away. That's not fair." She paused, uncertain if Erik would take offense at her forward advice. He still was silent, so Meg added, "I understand what you and the Viscount both see in Christine, but she's my best friend, and she deserves the chance to make these decisions for herself. You can't just compose an opera and manipulate so many lives into some scheme to win her heart, any more than Raoul can threaten to kill any rival suitors in an effort to protect her. She's sweet, but she's a smart girl, and you have to give her the credit that she can follow her heart, without people trying to make these choices for her."

As her echoes died in the large cavern, she turned away. Her heart was pounding from the stress of saying so much without having thought it out beforehand. She waited for Erik to laugh derisively, or to grow angry with her for thinking that young Raoul could ever be a threat to him, or even to simply turn around and paddle his little boat back across the lake, not deeming her worries worthy of a response. What she didn't expect was for the soft sound of a sob to cut through the stillness.

Meg turned back, hardly believing her ears, to find Erik still standing, but now with his shoulders hunched and his mask buried in his leather-gloved hands. She took one wary step towards him. Was this a trick? Was he truly crying? Naturally, she couldn't see his face to verify this completely uncharacteristic display of emotion.

"Erik?" she asked softly, very confused as to what to do. The only people she ever saw weeping were her fellow chorus girls, and she doubted Erik would allow himself to be comforted in the ways she usually dealt with the girls.

At the sound of her voice, Erik sank down onto the edge of his gondola, unheeding of how his cloak trailed into the dark waters. He removed his mask, careful to keep it raised as a shield between his face and Meg's gaze as he wiped tears from his hollow eyes. Still completely bewildered, Meg sank down to the gravel at his feet, peering up at him, unsure of what to say. After a few moments, Erik's got his breathing under control and spoke in a shaky, decidedly human voice.

"All I've ever tried to do is prove myself worthy of her," he said, in barely more than a whisper. "Next to me, she is an Angel of Heaven, and I am but a twisted gargoyle of Hell. My only gift has been my voice, and all I could give her was the encouragement to develop her own talents. But I see now that that will never be enough. She needs a normal life, and a home with sunshine, and a handsome, wealthy husband who can provide for her in the way she has always dreamed of. This face…my past… all I have ever known to do was to manipulate people, as you say. My gift of an opera has become no more than an attempt to control what little I could, through intimidation. But you're right. That is no way to win a lady's heart. And I shall never win the heart of this Angel." His voice grew too choked to speak, and he buried his mask in his hands once more.

As Meg sat there, watching Erik's heart break, she could not keep her heart from reaching out to the poor man. Unable to restrain herself, she rose up on her knees and pulled the legendary, frightening, brokenhearted Phantom of the Opera into her arms.

"Shh, shh," she muttered, reaching out and drawing him close. It was suddenly very, very important to her that he not cry, that he didn't lose all hope…

Erik allowed himself to be folded into her strong embrace. She cherished feel of the thin but muscular frame that shook under her grip. Unconsciously, she moved her palms across his back, able to feel his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt and cloak. She tightened her embrace and buried her face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, and she realized that he no longer smelled of death.

He smelled of life.

Meg suddenly decided that his scent was the only air she ever wanted to breathe, that his thin body was the only thing she ever wanted to hold, that his horrible death's head now pressed into her shoulder was the only face she ever wanted to wake up to for the rest of her life.

She decided that she loved him, but she knew that he could never feel the same.

After a long moment, once Erik's silent sobs had finally ceased, Meg sat back onto her heels once more. She sighed. An idea had just occurred to her, and she knew that now, Erik would be able to make the right decisions with her information.

"Listen," she said softly, resting one hand against Erik's forearm and gently pulling a hand away from his mask. "Christine's father is buried in a little cemetery in town, called the Elysian Fields. Lately, she only visits once a year, on the night of his death." She paused, but she had said enough that she had to continue. "I doubt that she would ask Raoul to accompany her. I think that if you were to meet her there, and simply speak with her about your feelings – no ventriloquism, no singing, none of your tricks – then you would be able to make her understand how you feel. I believe it would be the right thing to do, and that with her alone, she would be more than willing to listen."

The porcelain mask turned towards her, and she could see Erik's hopeful eyes glinting gold in her lamplight.

"Thank you, Megara," he said softly, his voice still slightly hoarse with emotion. He laid one gloved hand gently atop hers. "Thank you for your kindness."

A curious feeling stirred in Meg's chest, and she stood, awkwardly. "Well…just…be careful," she stammered, picking up her lamp and examining the flame to have somewhere to look other than Erik's pitifully hopeful gaze. "I'll…I'll just be going."

And still completely befuddled as to what had just happened, Meg exited the fifth basement as quickly as she could without running.

…

As soon as the girl's thin form disappeared into the shadows, Erik straightened and shook himself, cold and emotionless once again. He shook his head once, ridding himself of the girl's touch, her presence. The things he had to do to use her, now that his threats no longer seemed to terrify her, now that she felt that she knew him. That was the danger of letting people see your human side – they just stopped fearing you, and then it was so much more work to get them to do your bidding. He couldn't let the young woman's touch distract him from his goal.

And how fortunate that his plan had succeeded! In all of the excitement over his upcoming opera, he had forgotten about his Angel's annual trip to her late father's graveside. How convenient! What a perfect opportunity this would be. Without that meddling boy present, Christine would no longer be confused by feelings from her past, and she would be free to give herself fully to the power of his voice. No matter what it too, she would be his. And if that insolent boy dared to face him, he would curse the day he had ever been born!

…

Meg was so flustered by the way her heart kept leaping in her chest that she took the wrong turn twice on her ascent to her dressing room. She could have taken the passage straight to her mother's quarters, but she didn't want to advertise the fact that she was still in contact with their resident ghost. Instead, she exited the secret passageway through the mirror in her own room. Just as she was about to close the mirror, however, a thought occurred to her. She entered the dark corridor once again and padded silently over to the window into Christine's dressing room.

Inside, Christine and Raoul sat side-by-side on the edge of the small bed. Christine's normally lovely face was a picture of fear and heartbreak, while Raoul watched her anxiously. He held his sweetheart's hands tenderly in his, while Christine's seemed to be clutched tightly around something. Silently, Meg watched as Raoul gently pulled Christine's hands open and extracted whatever she had been grasping. She had to clap a hand over her mouth to keep from gasping as Raoul knelt to the floor in front of the bed and slipped the object onto Christine's left hand. As Christine held her hand up admiringly, Meg could see that the ornament was an enormous engagement ring. A brilliant sapphire gleamed in the lamplight, surrounded by the twinkle of a dozen small diamonds. Christine looked away from her magnificent ring to glance anxiously towards her full-length mirror, behind which Meg could barely control all of the emotions racing through her.

Raoul saw his fiancé's nervous gesture, and gently took both of her hands in his.

"Never fear, my love," he said softly. "We're alone now. And I will always be here to protect you, I swear it."

Christine tore her fearful gaze from the mirror, and looked instead at the handsome young nobleman kneeling before her, gazing so adoringly at her, swearing to keep her safe from the shadows. Meg could see Christine's heart melt as her face softened and lost its worried creases. As the brunette placed a small hand lovingly against Raoul's perfect cheek, Meg had to turn away. No wonder Erik had been so distraught!

Her eyes filling with sympathetic tears, Meg walked back to her dressing room, shut the mirror tightly, and headed down the winding halls towards her mother's quarters.

…

When Meg knocked on her mother's door and received a distracted "Come in," to enter, Antoinette Giry was perched atop her bed, papers spread about her, wearing her tiny reading glasses as she examined the stack of parchment that Erik had provided.

"How's it going?" Meg asked quietly, so that her mother could ignore her if she was in the middle of trying to envision a difficult dance sequence, or something.

Antoinette looked up and sighed. "It is all so complex," she said, pulling a lone paper from the bottom of the layer and thrusting it towards her daughter. It was Meg's character sheet, and she skimmed it briefly. Apparently, she was playing the part of Francesca—

"A prostitute?" Meg asked aloud, all of her sympathetic feelings towards Erik evaporating in an instant.

Her mother sighed. "Don't feel singled out," she said wearily. "Half of the men and women of the chorus are prostitutes. In the play, I mean!" she added as an afterthought when she caught her daughter's ironic gaze. The two women shared a brief laugh, but the darkness of the new opera hung over them like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

But the other chorus members didn't have named parts to ensure that they were displayed as such, Meg thought bitterly. Erik must have been furious that she had failed to help him win Christine's heart, and taken out his frustrations by forcing her to appear in front of hundreds as a common whore. She was almost afraid to read the script now, unsure of what other humiliations Erik's anger had brought down upon her.

With a sigh, she settled into her mother's chair and held out her hands for the storyline. Antoinette passed it over, since she was currently only interested in the stage direction sheets for the ballet numbers.

As Meg began to read the story, watching the lines translate to images and movement in her mind, she felt a cold pit of fear open up in her stomach. The story was the tale of a famous seducer named Don Juan. He was a Casanova of sorts, and the opera opened with a tale of his past conquests. It appeared that the comic relief in the story would be Carlotta's character, Genevieve, a past lover who could not accept that Don Juan's affections for her were never real, and was continually being spurned by him. Meg's character was one of Don Juan's favorite backups, a whore who sent her paying customers away whenever the famous lover came to call on her. _That_ would be a horrible dance scene, Meg thought with a grimace.

And then there was Amelia, the poor flower seller that Christine would play. Her charm and beauty naturally attracted the lustful Don Juan, but her intense goodness and innocence protected her from his advances. At the end of the first act, immediately after their first meeting, the audience wonders if Don Juan will ever win Amelia, or even if he will actually fall in love with her. The second act details some of Don Juan's unsuccessful attempts to seduce the young woman, and finally culminates in a brilliant deception, during which Don Juan, who all along has been pretending to be his butler, Pasarino (a common disguise while out scouting the women in the marketplace), invites Amelia over to his house for an evening of forbidden pleasure and eventually succeeds into tricking her into sleeping with him. As the play ends (because even Erik knows that the audience needs a happy ending), Don Juan wakes up in bed with Amelia, and instead of sending her away as he has done with Francesca, Genevieve, and countless others throughout the play, asks her if she would like anything for breakfast.

Once she had read the entire opera, the sick feeling in Meg's stomach had only intensified, and she closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. What darkness had possessed Erik's soul for him to devote such talent, such exquisite music, to a story like this? She thought she might throw up. Poor Erik! These pages contained such pain, such awful loss. It was the story of a man who took revenge on all women because they were his true vulnerability, and who could never truly open up to anyone. She wanted to cry with the sadness of it all.

Instead, she asked her mother, "How can the managers support us performing this play?"

Antoinette looked up from the notes she was scribbling in the margins of one page of dance steps with an exasperated expression. "Sex sells," she said bluntly, and Meg was forced to nod in agreement. Antoinette and her daughter never discussed sex, in the informative sense, but raising a girl in an opera house meant that she would always be exposed to sex as a daily part of life. All she could ever do was to instill good Christian values in the child, and so far things had worked out well.

Meg sighed uncomfortably and flopped the stack of parchment she was holding back onto the bed beside her mother. The audience always loved sex – innuendo, sensual dancing, you name it. _Il Muto_ had been full of comical references to sex, particularly regarding the Countess and the Pageboy's affair and the Count's bedroom inadequacies. She just hated the way the audience flocked to the sordid topic, especially when it created such a demand for lewd ballet numbers. And Erik certainly hadn't skimped on either the sexual references or dance numbers. Meg was very glad that she had spent years cultivating a fearsome reputation with all of the men on the chorus line. Those that didn't respect her as a friend respected her as someone who would not hesitate to "accidentally" plant a forceful _battement_ in a very delicate region of their anatomy. Playing a prostitute, Meg knew that this relationship would be crucial.

Meg had half a mind to march right back down to the shore of that black lake and give Erik an honest evaluation of his handiwork, but the image of him seated on the edge of his gondola, sobbing hopelessly into his hands, was buried into her mind. She understood what had driven him to write this beautiful and horrible opera, and she had the sinking feeling that it would be fantastically successful anyway.

She rose and checked the small clock on her mother's nightstand. It was late.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked.

Antoinette looked up over her reading glasses. "You could hand me that inkpot over there, but that's about all." Meg passed her mother the small black pot, verified that she couldn't help any more, and left her mother to continue making notes and diagrams on the dance number sheets.

When Meg rounded the corner, her heart sank. Underneath the faint glow of the sole still-lit lamp, the Viscount de Chagny was reclining in one of the plush velvet chairs that could usually be found in one of the Boxes that overlooked the Grand Auditorium. His boots, hat, jacket, and sword were placed neatly on the floor beside him. He sat with the char leaned back at a steep angle and his stockinged feet propped up against the outer edge of Christine's dressing room doorframe. It was obvious that he planned to spend the night guarding his fiancé's door.

Raoul cracked one eye open as Meg approached and opened her own door.

"Good night, mademoiselle," he said, a note of suspicion still hardening his voice. She couldn't think of any polite way to mention the fact that he was sleeping in the hallway, so after an awkward moment, she curtseyed distractedly to the Viscount, wished him pleasant dreams, and made her escape into her room.

Meg tossed and turned all night, trying her hardest not to think about her encounter with Erik that evening. She slept badly, and when the morning brought her mother's incessant wake-up knocking, she felt more tired than the night before.

The day passed slowly. Madame Giry gave the ballet chorus an overview of the play, though the general reaction was not as unhappy as Meg's. They began rehearsing the opening ballet number simply by the counts; it would b several more days before the orchestra had practiced sufficiently for them to begin dancing to music. The day was hard, and under Madame Giry's strict direction, most of the chorus was drenched in sweat before lunchtime. By the end of the afternoon rehearsal, Meg's toes had bled through her pointe shoes and she was aching all over. Supper was a subdued affair, with worry and exhaustion keeping dancers and other assorted staff nearly silent. But, through it all, Meg could barely focus on the steps. Her mind was consumed by uncertainty over her feelings from yesterday and worry for what would transpire in the Elysian Fields graveyard that night.

As night fell and the Populaire slowly fell silent, Meg lay awake in her bed in the dim light of her oil lamp in her dressing room. Though completely exhausted, her mind was too alert with worry to sleep. She held a thick book propped up on her stomach, but she couldn't focus on the words. With a sigh, she gave up on the tome and set it on the floor.

She felt sick. When she had told Erik about Christine's annual trip to the graveyard, she hadn't considered how her own feelings might play into the situation. She rolled over in her bed with an angry twist. Who said she could have feelings for Erik? He was deeply infatuated with Christine, not to mention old, frightening, and slightly insane. Especially now that she had read the beauty and sadness in the pages of _Don Juan Triumphant!_, she knew that she would never have a chance to build a relationship with this tortured soul. With an incredible sadness growing in her heart, she told herself that all she could allow herself to feel for the poor man was sympathy, support, and at best friendship. As a friend, she could help him in his wooing of Christine, and as a friend, she would not put herself in his way.

Feeling empty save for the small spark of determination in her chest, Meg rolled over again and closed her eyes. She prayed a silent prayer that Erik's talk with Christine at the graveyard went well, that he didn't try to use his tricks to manipulate her, and that the young woman could speak with him without her past reverence or her current fear. After all, he was only a man – a man who was desperate for love, and often far too willing and able to take it by force.

In the silence of the dark night, Meg heard a very soft _click_ and the creak of a floorboard. That would be Christine, sneaking out to meet the carriage driver that would take her to the graveyard. Meg resumed her praying for a peaceful encounter that night.

Suddenly, the stillness was broken by a loud thump and a clatter from the hallway outside the dressing room. There was a bang as Christine's door was flung open, and a booming tenor voice cried "Christine!" into the silence.

Ignoring the searing pain in her legs and feet, Meg leapt out of bed. Raoul must have been sleeping on guard outside of Christine's door again, and only now discovered that she had gone! She must not have told him of her intention to visit the elegant little cemetery that night. Meg listened intently for several seconds, and could hear Raoul hurriedly pulling on his boots and strapping on his sword and scabbard.

A feeling of dread washed over Meg. What if Christine _had_ told Raoul where she was going, but he didn't know she intended to go alone? Then he could follow her there, and he would find Erik! The men, as they and their typical male egos had promised, would attempt to kill each other on sight. As the sound of Raoul's running footsteps faded away down the hallway, Meg made a decision. She had to get to that graveyard and stop them!

With an incredible speed, Meg threw a dress on over her nightshift, whirled her drab grey cloak around her shoulders, jammed her feet into a worn pair of shoes, and was out of her door before the smoke from her extinguished oil lamp stopped curling lazily into the shadows. As she ran full-speed down the pitch-black hallway and turned the corner into one flooded with light from the full moon from the round windows, she stopped and peered outside. There! She could see a lone figure in a billowing white shirt vanishing down the street under the faint glow of the moon. She had to catch up to him!

Her panic growing, she dashed out to the stables, where she found the groomsman holding his head and looking dazed. "I need a horse," she demanded breathlessly.

The groom glared up at here from under his thick brow, still massaging the back of his head. "You and everyone else, missy. Where's everyone off to so late?"

"I don't have time to explain! I need a horse!" Meg demanded, putting all of the command into her voice that she had heard her mother use her entire life.

The groomsman pointed reluctantly at an enormous, smoke-gray horse that was peering at them curiously with his enormous dark eyes. Meg eyed the stallion warily.

"Is he fast?" and as an afterthought, "Can he carry two people?"

The groom sighed and reached for a saddle and bridle from the wall. "Two people your size, yeah. He'd be slower then, but with just you, he's one of the fastest we have." He finished fitting the bridle over the horse's head and turned back to the wall to grab a saddleblanket.

Growing impatient, Meg hiked up her skirt, stepped onto the edge of a manger, and swung a long leg over the horse's broad back. The horse was apparently just as eager as his rider was to be off, and Meg hardly had time to take the reins in her hands before the large animal was galloping into the frigid night air, leaving behind an incredibly frustrated groomsman scratching his aching head, hot in pursuit of the Viscount de Chagny.


	45. A Ghastly Graveyard

**Chapter 40**

**A Ghastly Graveyard**

A dense fog was gathering over the cold ground as Meg and her horse raced towards the edge of town. Once free of the dense buildings of Paris's city center, the moonlight flooded the bare woods, filling Meg's path with eerie shadows they galloped towards the Elysian Fields cemetery. Wrapped in a thin grey cloak and atop a large grey horse, she looked like no more than a ghost in the swirling midnight fog.

Meg had visited the church long ago with Christine, and could remember the way clearly. She prayed that the Viscount had been forced to stop for directions to the small church, since he was not a Paris native and would be unlikely to know where to find the cemetery. She had to get there before him, and warn Erik!

As she approached the small church behind which Monsieur Charles Daae was buried, she could hear the faint sound of violin music permeating the air. Good; that meant that Raoul had not already found and confronted Erik. But the haunting music made Meg's stomach turn. Was the Phantom up to his old tricks? She kicked the horse slightly, not daring to slow down a moment before it was necessary.

Suddenly, a dark iron gate appeared out of the fog in front of them, and Meg had to grab the horse's broad neck to keep from being thrown as the large beast skidded to a halt in the snow. She clamped her teeth together to keep from crying out in surprise; she didn't want to announce her presence to Christine. Once her heart stopped racing, she turned the massive beast and trotted towards the shadowy treeline. She dismounted and looped the reins around a low-hanging, snow-laden branch in the most complicated manner she could think of, since she didn't actually know how to make the sturdy sort of knots that the stagehands could tie.

Patting the horse on the nose gently, she began trudging towards a small side gate as snow began to fall lightly. The violin music was louder now, and she thought she could hear singing in the cold night air. As she approached the gate, she noticed that the iron padlock was open even though there was no key in it. Had Erik picked it open? Just as she was about to slip through it, a snort from behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin. She turned, thinking that her horse had already managed to pull out of her inept knot, but instead saw another horse, this one coal-black and hitched to a small but elegant carriage.

Cautiously, Meg approached the horse. If this was the carriage that had brought Christine to the graveyard, where was the driver? The black horse eyed her suspiciously as she peered in the window of the carriage, but it was empty. She checked for footprints in the snow, but the only prints aside from her own were a single pair heading directly towards the small iron gate. The sinking feeling in her stomach intensified. If there was no driver waiting with the carriage, either the driver had followed Christine into the cemetery for some dark purpose, or…

If Erik had been the driver, then he was not acting at all like someone who simply intended to talk with his love. If he was her only way back to the city, then he could just as easily kidnap her, and no one would be any the wiser! Beginning to panic, Meg ran back to the small gate and squeezed through, careful not to open it very far lest it let out a tell-tale squeak and revealing her to the graveyard's living inhabitants.

She followed the haunting melody through the looming tombstones with their carved likenesses of angels and saints. Her snow-covered grey cloak disguised her in the freezing fog, despite the flood of moonlight. As she crept along, careful not to step on any fallen branches that could snap and announce her before she had assessed the situation, the violin music died away, replaced with a beautiful harmony of voices in the chill air. Meg sneaked faster, darting from one shadowy gravestone to the next. She knew that Charles Daae's crypt was near the back of the graveyard, and gave the area a wide berth so as to come upon the back of the scene.

As Meg approached, she could make out the words that were being sung. The song was from the final act of _Faust_, normally sung as a solo, but Erik's angelic tenor was providing an unheard-of and beautiful harmony line. The singers slowly emerged from the fog, which glowed in the moonlight and gave the scene a surreal, dreamlike quality. Christine was seated at the foot of the stairs to her father's crypt, her hand to her chest as if to hold her heart in, her eyes full of rapture as she gazed upon her accompanist. Erik stood, swathed in a swirling black cloak and wearing his mask and fedora to conceal his deformity, atop the crypt in a wide-legged, commanding pose, holding his violin in his left hand and its bow in his right. One glance at the pair, and Meg could tell that Little Lotte had given her self fully to the Angel of Music.

She could hear the climax of the piece fast approaching, and she knew that if Erik were going to make his move, whatever it may be, it would be very soon. She suddenly grew very angry. He had promised her that he wouldn't try to trick Christine into leaving with him! He had said that he just wanted to talk, and yet here he was, bewitching the young singer with his music, back to his old games. Still concealing herself behind large granite effigies, she approached the rear of the crypt and pressed herself against the cold marble wall. She had to find a way to get Erik's attention without being noticed by Christine!

Suddenly, a man's powerful voice rent the night air.

"Christine, wait!" the Viscount de Chagny cried, accompanied by a loud screech as the main gates to the cemetery were thrown open. Christine whirled to face the sound, staring blindly into the fog in the direction of the entrance, and Meg used the diversion to scurry forward and began climbing the small, leafless tree that Erik had used to climb to the top of the crypt. She clambered onto the small roof, trying desperately not to slide off on the layer of snow that was building up under her feet, and rushed forward to where Erik too was peering into the fog, awaiting the approach of his enemy.

Not considering what murderous thoughts must be swirling through Erik's masked head, and still quite angry that he had gone back on his word, she reached out and grasped his bony shoulder. In a swirl of his cloak, Erik had knocked her hand aside with one hand and tightened a grip on her throat with the other. Luckily, the hand that was trying to choke her also contained the violin bow, and though the resin-coated fibers pressed a deep groove into her neck and jaw, Meg was able to pull his arm away before any real harm was done.

"What are you doing here?" Erik hissed, an inhuman rage filling every syllable.

"What are _you_ doing?" Meg shot back, almost as angry. "You said you only wanted to speak with her, and here you again, trying to enchant her again, trying to trick her into being with you!" A thought occurred to her, and she suddenly had the desire to shove him off the roof of the crypt. "Did you _lie_ to me to get me to help you? Was all of that, all of your feelings – was that just an act?"

Erik stiffened, but it was the look of one who was proud of his superiority, not someone who felt guilty about being caught. Meg felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She took an angry step towards him, fully intending to push him to the snowy ground below, when the approach of heavy breathing and the clatter of someone wearing a sword reminded her of where they were. So instead, she stepped back again and quickly dropped to lie flat on the small roof, concealing herself with her cloak and staying out of the line of vision of the frantic couple on the ground. Erik turned his attentions to the newly arrived Viscount.

"Ah, Monsieur, how nice of you to join us!" he called in mock welcome. "Congratulations on finding your way. I wasn't sure you would make it!" Meg could hear the madness in his voice, and from under the edge of her cowl, watched him remove several small glass orbs from a pocket in the back of his cloak. She also heard a hiss of steel ring out as Raoul drew his sword. In her mind, she could picture the brave young man placing himself protectively in front of his fiancé, raising his sword to the spectral figure on the roof in a challenge.

"Leave her alone, you monster!" Raoul demanded, brandishing his sword.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, obviously upset at his actions and words.

"Are you challenging me, Monsieur?" Erik said, his mocking voice still tinged with his barely suppressed rage.

"To the death, Monsieur," Raoul replied immediately.

"Very well then." With that icy, emotionless reply, Erik hurled one of the glass orbs he was holding down towards the waiting Viscount. There was an explosion, and a column of fire shot up so high into the air that Meg could see the top of the flames over the edge of the tomb. Christine screamed in terror, but Erik only drew his arm back and hurled another orb down towards the couple. Meg couldn't tell if he was actually trying to hit them or not, but she could hear Raoul shouting for Christine to get away as fast as she could, so Erik must be missing his mark.

As Erik continued to pull a seemingly endless supply of the exploding orbs out of the folds of his cloak, Meg couldn't stand not knowing what was happening below. She inched over to the edge of the roof and peered over the side. As a pillar of fire erupted directly in front of the terrified couple, Meg watched Raoul shove Christine away from him, placing her behind a tall granite cross and diving the opposite direction himself. After a few more explosions, the Viscount was taking shelter himself, using the leafless branches of an enormous, gnarled oak tree as a shield between himself and Erik's bombs.

This appeared to be what Erik had been waiting for. With only a small shifting movement from the spectral figure, a thick rope net fell from the branches of the tree, where neither Meg nor the Viscount had previously noticed it, and attempted to drape itself ensnaringly over Raoul and his sword. As the net fell, Erik leapt from the roof in a cloud of swirling black cloak, the hiss of his own sword ringing out as it left its sheath. Christine let out a small, strangled scream from where she stood with her back pressed against the gravestone, watching helplessly as the two men engaged each other.

Luckily for him, Raoul possessed very quick reflexes in a combat environment, and he was able to evade the net entirely. As Erik landed, catlike on the fresh snow, Raoul met his attacker with a vicious slash. Erik was excellent at swordfighting, like he was excellent at everything he put his incredible natural talent to. Unfortunately, the Viscount had the benefit of having had live opponents to spar against for his entire life. The two men lunged and parried, slashing and stabbing for all they were worth, but for the moment they seemed evenly matched. Christine began circling the fight, pleading with the combatants to stop, wringing her hands desperately but too afraid to get close.

Under the cover of the noisy clang of steel, Meg slithered to the edge of the roof, grasped a large branch, and swung herself onto the powdery snow, landing with the grace befitting a lifelong dancer. Unsure of how else to stop the situation from getting out of hand, she bent and scooped up a double handful of the fresh, powdery snow and compacted it into a hard snowball, wondering how to throw it and get Erik's attention without being noticed by Christine.

As she was waiting for Christine's back to face the crypt, Meg heard Erik emit a hiss of pain. She peered around the edge of the building and saw the Phantom clutch his arm and stumble briefly from the pain. She watched in horror as Raoul took that opportunity to pick up the net that Erik had dropped from the tree and hurl it at its owner, attempting to ensnare his sword arm. As Erik whirled, using his injured arm to twirl his cloak and bat the net away without becoming entangled, Raoul sent a vicious slice at Erik's face. Meg was unable to stifle a gasp of fear, but the blow hit the side of Erik's head and was mostly blocked by the stiff porcelain mask.

Instinctively, out of fear for Erik's life, Meg hurled the snowball at Raoul and then quickly ducked behind a large statue of a cross. As Raoul spun to face this invisible assailant, Erik rolled behind a tombstone, snagged a tree branch in one gloved hand and catapulted himself around, and landed on the back of a granite headstone in the shape of a praying angel. Peering under the bend of the headstone, Meg was awed by his almost faster-than-sight movements, and could easily see how the attack would look ghostly to Raoul. If she hadn't just watched it, it would be easy to think that he was disappearing and reappearing. Noticing his opponent's movements, Raoul spun and slashed at the statue, but Erik ducked behind it, letting out a mirthless laugh as sparks flew off of the injured statue.

Now determined to assist in the fight, Meg moved several feet around the perimeter of the fight and readied another snowball. Christine was still crying for both her angel and her fiancé to stop their battle, but she was still afraid to venture near the fighters. Raoul circled the statue and lunged again, and Meg threw another snowball at the instant his back was to her. He overbalanced on his lunge, and Erik leapt off of the back of the gravestone, executing an elegant maneuver in which he whipped his cloak in a blurring circle and ensnared Raoul's sword in its folds. With a vicious jerk, he pulled the sword out of the young man's grasp. Erik then threw himself at the Viscount, thinking him unarmed, but Raoul pulled a long dagger from his belt that had previously gone unnoticed. Erik, careless in his attempt to surprise the Viscount, didn't notice the new blade until it had drawn a long, deep gash across his thin chest.

Panicking, and realizing that the snowballs weren't going to win Erik this fight, Meg thought of one last chance to stop the battle before someone was killed. She fled from the fight, using her snow-covered grey cloak as cover, and just as Raoul raised the dagger to strike again, she called out into the clear night.

"Christine?" she yelled, as loudly and calmly as she could while her heart and breath both caught in her chest.

Raoul and Christine whirled at the sound, and Meg could see that Erik used the distraction to vanish in a swirl of his cape. Smiling in relief, Meg retreated several more meters, hoping desperately that her cloak was making her blend into the swirling fog, and then called out Christine's name again. As she waited a few more moments to approach the couple, she saw Erik's shadowy form pass her in the darkness, and caught the red glint of his eyes behind the mask. He was still bleeding freely from his arm and chest, and she thought she heard him muttering something about swearing vengeance, but she couldn't read his expression, and she had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment. She had to give him time to get out of here safely. She hung back behind another large tomb until she heard the creak of the iron gate that told her that Erik had safely escaped the graveyard, and then she began walking noisily towards the heavily breathing couple standing near M Daae's crypt.

Panting, she hurried up to the pair, and only when Christine and Raoul turned to see who it was did Raoul notice that Erik had gone. Meg curtsied to the Viscount, truly breathless with excitement and fear, and manage to stammer, "Pardon me, Monsieur, but Christine prefers to not be disturbed when visiting her father's grave. I know that you feel you need to be here to support her, but she asked me long ago to make sure that she could make her vigils in peace. And anyway," she said, allowing her anger at the Viscount to show just enough to feign indignation, "you ought not to have accompanied her without a chaperone." Raoul's glare was fiery, and Meg was suddenly more afraid than ever that he saw through her excuses. Soon, he would have to figure out that she was helping his adversary. Swallowing nervously under his gaze, which bothered her in her guilty state as much as any fierce look from Erik had ever done, she continued, "I saw you follow her carriage here. If she had wanted you with her, she would have asked you to accompany her. I had to take a horse here all by myself to try and stop you from disturbing her, and now I find you shouting, with weapons drawn—"

Raoul sputtered in protest, stammering, "I came here to protect her! How dare you—"

She cut him off, giving the young man the most accusatory look she could muster. "With all due respect, Monsieur, I think that you should leave my friend in peace."

Raoul's jaw was tightly clenched as he was obviously debating how much to accuse Meg of in front of Christine. Meg waited, hardly daring to breathe, praying that the "concerned best friend" card had been played properly.

In the silence, Christine put a small gloved hand on her fiance's arm.

"It's alright," she said softly, but neither Meg nor Raoul knew to which one of them she was speaking. "I think I'm done here anyway. Meg, could you take me back to the Populaire?" A disappointed look in Raoul's direction told Meg that Christine was mad at Raoul for trying to kill Erik when she felt he was not threatening her.

"Of course," Meg said with a nod, fighting twin feelings of victory and guilt at the frustration and hurt on Raoul's face. "And don't worry – whoever brought you here will figure out you've gone. There's no need to wait." She hoped that Erik would have left with his black carriage.

Raoul followed the two young women out of the graveyard, unsure of what to say. As the girls mounted the enormous smoke-grey horse, Raoul could not stop himself from pleading one last time,

"Christine, don't leave me! You know I was just trying to protect you!"

Christine looked down at him from the high back of the stallion, her expression unreadable and more mature than Meg had ever seen it. "I will see you in the morning," she said cryptically, and turned her face away.

Raoul watched helplessly as Meg took up the reigns and turned the horse away, his dagger still dripping Erik's blood into the snow; his arm bleeding sluggishly from a blow Meg had not seen Erik land. Christine did not look back as Meg directed the horse back through the snowy trail towards home.

Halfway back to the opera house, with her arms tight around Meg to hang on, Christine buried her face in the hood of Meg's cloak and began to cry.


End file.
